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23  WEST  MAIN  STRSET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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m^m^^mm 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

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microfiches. 


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J 

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IfiX 

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24X 

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32X 

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premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
!a  derni^re  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
derni6re  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  Ie 
cas:  Ie  symbole  -^*-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  Ie 
symbole  V  signifie  "F!N". 

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film6s  d  des  taux  de  r6duction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  Ie  document  est  trop  grand  pour  otre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  Ie  not.nbre 
d'images  n6cessaire.  Les  diagramme?  suivants 
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a 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID 
BY  GRANT  ALLHN 


BOSTON;  LnTIJ.,  liROWN,  &  CO.,  1S9S 
LONDON:  JOHN    LANE,  VKiO    ST 


280217 


V>\'  Koiiiuri^   I'.Roi  iiiKS. 


A  U  rii'iits  reserved. 


John  A\'ii.S(>\  and  Son,  Cami;iuih;i:,   I'.S.A. 


,,  ^  ,■  „,.  li-:lM«i&i«i5S 


TO   MY   DEAR    WIFE 
TO    WHOM    I    HAVK    DRDICATED 
MV   TWKNTV    IIAVPIEST    YEARS 
I   DEDICATE    ALSO 
THIS   HRIEF   MEMORIAL 
OF    A    LESS    FORTUNATE    LOVE 


"^■"""ppiiii 


WRITTEN    AT   rFRUCl^ 

SPRING    1893 

FOR    THE    FIRST    TIME    IN    MY    LIFE 

WHOLLY    AND    SOLELY    TO     SATISFY 

MY    OWN    TASTE 

AND    MY    OWN    CONSCIENCE 


I 


I 


1 


* 


PREFACE. 

"But  St, rely  no  woman  would  over  dare  to  do 
SO,    said  my  friend. 

"  I  K-new  a  woman  who  did,- said  I;. -and  this 
IS  her  story." 


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THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


I 


J 


I. 

Mrs.    Dewsburv's    lawn    was    held    by    those 
who    knew    it    the    loveliest    in    Surrey.       The 
smooth    and    springy    sward    that    stretched    in 
iront  of  the  house  was  all  composed  of  a  tiny 
yellow  clover.      It   gave  l)eneath   the  foot  like 
the    p,le  on   velvet.      One's    g.  ,e   looked    forth 
trom   It   upon   the  endless  middle  distances  of 
the   oak-clad   Weald,    with   the   uncertain    blue 
inc  of  the   South   Downs   in   the   background 
Kidge  behind  ridge,  the  long,  low  hills  of  palu- 
(lina   limestone   stood   out    in    successive    tiers 
each    thrown    up  against    its    neighbor    by   the 
misty    haze     that    broods     eternally    over    the 
vyoodcd    valley;    till,    roaming  across   them   all 
tlie   eye  rested   at   last   on  the  rearing   scarp  of 
Chanctonbury    Ring,    faintly   pencilled    on    the 
furthest   sky-line.      Shadowy  phantoms  of   dim 
h.nghts    framed    the    verge   to    east   and    west. 
Alan   Merrick  drank  it   in  with  profound  satis- 
faction.      After  those  sharp  and  clear-cut  Itali  m 


mmmm 


mmumtimmmmit 


8 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DH). 


outlines,  hard  as  lapis  lazul',  the  mysterious 
vagueness,  the  pregnant  suggestiveness,  of  our 
English  scenery  strikes  the  imagination;  and 
Alan  was  fresh  home  from  an  early  summer 
tour  among  the  Peruginesc[ue  solidities  of  liie 
Umbrian  Apennines.  "  How  beautiful  it  all  is, 
after  all,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  entertainer. 
"In  Italy  't  is  the  background  the  painter  dwells 
upon;  in  I^Jigland,  we  look  rather  at  the  middle 
distance." 

Mrs.  Dewsbury  darted  round  her  the  restless 
eye  of  a  hostess,  to  see  upon  whom  she  could 
socially  bestow  him.  **  Oh,  come  this  way," 
she  said,  sweeping  across  the  lawn  towards 
a  girl  in  a  blue  dress  at  the  o})posite  corner. 
"You  must  know  our  new-comer.  I  want  to 
introduce  you  to  Miss  Barton,  from  Cambridge. 
She  's  siii/i  a  nice  girl  too,  —  the  Dean  of 
Dunwich's  daughter." 

Alan  Merrick  drew  back  with  a  vague  ges- 
ture of  distaste.  "Oh,  thank  you,"  he  re})lied; 
"but,  do  you  know,  I  don't  think  I  like  deans, 
Mrs.  Dewsbury." 

Mrs.  Dewsbury 's  smile  was  recondite  and 
diplomatic.  "Then  you  '11  exactly  suit  one  an- 
other," she  answered  with  gay  wisdom.  "  l^V)r,  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  think  s/ic  does  either." 

Th  young  man  allowed  himself  to  be  led 
with   a   passive   protest   in  the   direction  where 


»»WWTO»SWIiWnWflllW*WB^( 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DH). 


I 

\ 

# 


Mrs.  Dcwsbury  so  impulsively  hurried  him, 
lie  heard  that  cultivated  voice  murmuriiif;  in 
the  usual  inaudible  tone  of  introduction,  "IVIiss 
Barton,  Mr.  Alan  Merrick."  Then  he  raised 
his  hat.  As  he  did  so,  he  looked  down  at 
Ilerminia  Barton's  face  with  a  sudden  start  of 
surprise.  Why,  this  was  a  <;irl  of  most  unusual 
beauty ! 

She  was  tall  and  dark,  with  abundant  black 
hair,  richly  waved  above  the  ample  forehead.; 
and  she  wore  a  curious  (3riental-looking  navy- 
blue  robe  of  some  soft  woollen  stuff,  that  fell 
in  natural  folds  and  set  off  to  the  utmost  the 
lissome  grace  of  her  rounded  figure.  It  was 
a  sort  of  sleeveless  sack,  eml^roidered  in  front 
with  arabesques  in  gold  thread,  and  fastened 
obliquely  two  inches  below  the  waist  with  a 
belt  of  gilt  braid,  and  a  clasp  of  Moorish  jewel- 
work,  l^eneath  it,  a  bodice  of  darker  silk 
showed  at  the  arms  and  neck,  with  loose  sleeves 
in  keeping.  The  whole  costume,  though  quite 
simple  in  style,  a  compromise  cither  for  after- 
noon or  evening,  was  charming  in  its  novelty, 
charming  too  in  the  way  it  permitted  the  utmost 
liberty  and  variety  of  movement  to  the  lithe 
limbs  of  its  wearer.  P)Ut  it  was  her  face  par- 
ticularly that  struck  y\lan  Merrick  at  first  sight. 
That  face  was  above  all  things  the  face  of  a  free 
woman.      Something!;  so  frank  and  fearless  shone 


mm 


■UMMtiiMatK 


lO 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


in  Hcrminia's  glance,  as  her  eye  met  his,  that 
Alan,  who  respected  human  freedom  above  all 
other  qualities  in  man  or  woman,  was  taken  on 
the  spot  by  its-  perfect  air  of  untrammelled 
liberty.  Yet  it  was  subtle  and  beautiful  too, 
undeniably  beautiful.  Ilerminia  liarton's  fea- 
tures, I  think,  were  even  more  striking  in  their 
way  in  later  life,  when  sorrow  had  stamped  her, 
and  the  mark  of  her  willing  martyrdom  for 
humanity's  sake  was  deeply  printed  upon  them. 
But  their  beauty  then  was  the  beauty  of  holiness, 
which  not  all  can  a}:)preciate.  In  her  younger 
days,  as  Alan  Merrick  first  saw  her,  she  was 
beautiful  still  with  the  first  flush  of  health  and 
strcniith  and  womanhood  in  a  free  and  vigorous 
English  girl's  body.  A  certain  lofty  serenity, 
not  untouched  with  pathos,  seemed  to  strike 
the  keynote.  ]5ut  that  was  not  all.  Some  hint 
of  every  element  in  the  highest  loveliness  met 
in  that  face  and  form, — physical,  intellectual, 
emotional,  moral. 

"  You  '11  like  him,  Herminia, "  Mrs.  Dewsbury 
said,  nodding,  **  He  's  one  of  your  own  kind,  as 
dreadful  as  you  are;  very  free  and  advanced; 
a  perfect  firebrand.  In  fact,  my  dear  child,  I 
don't  know  wliich  of  you  makes  my  hair  stand 
on  end  most."  And  with  that  introductory 
hint,  she  left  the  pair  forthwith  to  their  own 
devices. 


'4 


^Si^WPWP^' 


•'fy^y'^i^^'^.'M'^ 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


II 


Mrs.  Dcwsbury  was  ri^i;-ht.  It  took  those  two 
but  little  time  to  feel  cjuite  at  home  with  one 
another.  Built  of  similar  mouUl,  each  seemed 
instinctively  to  grasp  what  each  was  aimini;  at. 
Two  or  three  turns  pacing  up  ami  down  the 
lawn,  two  or  three  stei)s  along  the  box-covered 
path  at  the  side,  and  they  read  one  another  per- 
fectly. For  he  was  true  man,  and  she  was  real 
woman. 

"Then  you  were  at  Girton?"  Alan  asked,  as 
he  paused  with  one  hand  on  the  rustic  seat  that 
looks  up  towards  Leith  Hill,  and  the  heather- 
clad  moorland. 

**  Yes,  at  Girton,"  Ilerminia  answered,  sink- 
ing easily  upon  the  bench,  and  letting  one  arm 
rest  on  the  back  in  a  graceful  attitude  of 
unstudied   attention.      ''But    I   ditln't   take   my 


Icfrree, 


sh 


e  went  on  hurriec 


lly 


as  one  who   is 


anxious  to  disclaim  some  too  irreat  honor  thrust 


upon  her. 


I  did  n't  care  for  the  life;  I  thouirht 


it  cramping.  You  see,  if  wc  women  are  ever  to 
be  free  in  the  world,  we  must  have  in  the  end 
a  freeman's  education.  lUit  the  education  at 
Girton  made  only  a  pretence  at  freedom.  At 
heart,  our  girls  were  as  enslaved  to  conventions 
as  any  girls  elsewhere.  The  wdiole  object  of 
the  training  was  to  see  just  how  far  you  could 
manage  to  push  a  woman's  education  without 
the  faintest  danger  of  her  emancipation." 


■MMMMiUMirii 


12 


THE    WOMAN  WHO    DID. 


"You  arc  right,"  Alan  answered  briskly,  for 
the  point  was  a  pet  one  with  him.  "  I  was  an 
Oxford  man  myself,  and  I  know  that  servitude. 
When  I  go  up  to  Oxford  now  and  see  the  girls 
who  are  being  ground  in  the  r;ill  at  Somer- 
ville,  I  'm  heartily  sorry  for  them.  It  's  worse 
for  them  than  for  us;  they  miss  the  only  part 
of  university  lite  that  has  educational  value. 
When  we  men  were  undeii'iaduates,  we  lived 
our  whole  lives,  —  lived  them  all  round,  devel- 
oping equally  every  fibre  of  our  natures.  Wc 
read  Tlato,  and  Aristotle,  and  John  Stuart  Mill, 
to  be  sure,  —  and  I  'm  not  quite  certain  we  got 
much  good  from  them  ;  but  then  our  talk  and 
thought  were  not  all  of  books,  and  of  what  we 
spelt  out  in  them.  We  rowed  on  the  river,  we 
played  in  the  cricket-field,  we  lounged  in  the 
billiard-rooms,  we  ran  up  to  town  for  the  day, 
we  had  wine  in  one  another's  rooms  after  hall 
in  the  evening,  and  behaved  like  young  fools, 
and  threw  oranges  wildly  at  one  another's 
heads,  and  generally  enjoyed  ourselves.  It  was 
all  very  silly  and  irrational,  no  doubt,  but  it 
was  life,  it  was  reality;  while  the  pretended 
earnestness  of  those  pallid  Somerville  girls  is 
all  an  affectation  of  one-sided  cidture. " 

"That 's  just  it,"  Herminia  answered,  leaning 
back  on  the  rustic  seat  like  David's  Madame 
R(^^camier.      "You   put   your  finger  on  the  real 


im i*^r ^*i»:j( r.cwrsr^ gnoivnmu ■«>»"• '  i-.uwwimmiiji 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


13 


blot  when  you  said  those  words,  developing 
equally  every  fibre  of  your  natures.  That  's 
what  nobody  yet  wants  us  women  to  do. 
They  're  trying  hard  enouL;h  to  develop  us 
intellectually;  but  morally  and  socially  they 
want  to  mew  us  up  just  as  close  as  ever.  And 
they  won't  succeed.  The  zenana  must  f;o. 
Sooner  or  later,  I  'm  sure,  if  you  bei^in  by  edu- 
cating women,  you  must  end  by  emancipating 
them." 

"So  I  think  too,"  Alan  answered,  growing 
every  moment  more  interested.  "  And  for  my 
part,  it 's  the  emancipation,  not  the  mere  edu- 
cation, that  most  appeals  to  me. " 

"Yes,  I  've  always  felt  that,"  Herminia  went 
on,  letting  herself  out  more  freely,  for  she  felt 
she  was  face  to  face  with  a  sympathetic  listener. 
"  And  for  that  reason,  it  's  the  question  of  social 
and  moral  emancipation  that  interests  me  far 
more  than  the  mere  political  one, — woman's 
rights  as  they  call  it.  Of  course  I  'm  a  mem- 
ber of  all  the  woman's  franchise  leagues  and 
everything  of  that  sort,  —  they  can't  afford  to  do 
without  a  single  friend's  name  on  their  lists  at 
present ;  but  the  vote  is  a  matter  that  troubles 
me  little  in  itself,  what  I  want  is  to  see  women 
made  fit  to  use  it.  After  all,  political  life  fills 
but  a  small  and  unimportant  part  in  our  total 
existence.      It  's  the  perpetual  pressure  of  social 


^ttkitjlitiimmimim 


micn 


n 


14 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


and  ethical  restrictions  that  most  weighs  clown 
women. " 

Alan  paused  and  looked  hard  at  her.  "  And 
they  tell  me,"  he  said  in  a  slow  voice,  "you  're 
the  Dean  of  Dunwich's  daughter!" 

Herminia  laughed  lightly,  —  a  ringing  girlish 
laugh.  Alan  noHced  it  with  pleasure.  He  felt 
at  once  that  the  iron  of  Girton  had  not  entered 
into  her  soul,  as  into  so  many  of  our  modern 
young  women's.  There  was  vitality  enough  left 
in  her  for  a  genuine  laugh  of  innocent  amuse- 
ment. "Oh  yes,"  she  said,  merrily;  "that's 
what  I  always  answer  to  all  possible  objectors 
to  my  ways  and  ideas.  I  reply  with  dignity, 
'  /was  brought  up  in  the  family  of  a  clergyman 
of  the  Church  of  England. '  " 

"  And  what  does  the  Dean  say  to  your 
views?"  Alan  interposed  doubtfully. 

Herminia  laughed  again.  If  her  eyes  were 
profound,  two  dimples  saved  her.  "  I  thought 
you  were  with  us,"  she  answered  with  a  twinkle; 
"now,  I  begin  to  doubt  it.  You  don't  expect  a 
man  of  twenty-two  to  be  governed  in  all  things, 
esi)ecially  in  the  formation  of  his  abstract 
ideas,  by  his  father's  opinions.  Why  then  a 
woman }  " 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  "  Alan  answered.  "  There  I 
quite  agree  with  you.  I  was  thinking  not  so 
much  of  what  is  right  and  reasonable  as  of  what 


i 


i 


# 


W*iatwf9 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


15 


is  practical  and  usual.  For  most  women,  of 
course,  arc  —  well,  more  or  less  elopendent  upon 
their  fathers." 

"But  I  am  not,"  Ilerminia  answered,  with 
a  faint  suspicion  of  just  i)ride  in  the  undercur- 
rent of  her  tone.  "That  's  in  ])art  why  I  wen', 
away  so  soon  from  Girton.  I  felt  that  if  women 
are  ever  to  be  free,  they  must  first  of  all  he 
independent.  It  is  the  dependence  of  women 
that  has  allowed  men  to  make  laws  for  them, 
socially  and  ethically.  So  I  would  n't  stop  at 
Girton,  partly  because  I  felt  the  life  was  one- 
sided,—  our  girls  thought  and  talked  of  nothing 
else  on  earth  except  Herodotus,  trigonometry, 
and  the  higher  culture, — but  partly  also  be- 
cause I  wouldn't  be  dependent  on  any  man, 
not  even  my  own  father.  It  left  me  freer  to 
act  and  think  as  I  would.  So  I  threw  Girton 
overboard,  and  came  up  to  live  in  London." 

"I  see,"  Alan  replied.  "You  wouldn't  let 
your  schooling  interfere  with  your  education. 
And  now  you  support  yourself.-*"  he  went  on 
quite  frankly. 

Herminia  nodded  assent. 

"Yes,  I  support  myself,"  she  answered;  "in 
part  by  teaching  at  a  high  school  for  girls,  and 
in  part  by  doing  a  little  hack-work  for  news- 
papers." 

"Then  you  're  just  down  here  for  your  holi- 


i6 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


days,  I  suppose?"  Alan  put  in,  leaning  for- 
ward. 

"Yes,  just  down  here  for  my  holidays.  I  'vc 
lodgings  on  the  Holmwood,  in  such  a  dear  old 
thatched  cottage ;  roses  peep  in  at  the  porch, 
and  birds  sing  on  the  bushes.  After  a  term  in 
London,  it  's  a  delicious  change  for  one." 

"But  are  you  alone?"  Alan  interposed  again, 
still  half  hesitating. 

Herminia  smiled  once  more;  his  surprise 
amused  her.  "  Yes,  quite  alone,"  she  answered. 
"Hut  if  you  seem  so  astonished  at  that,  I  shall 
believe  you  and  Mrs.  Uewsbury  have  been  try- 
ing to  take  me  in,  and  that  you  're  not  really 
with  us.  Why  shouldn't  a  woman  come  down 
alone  to  pretty  lodgings  in  the  country  ?  " 

"Why  not,  indeed?"  Alan  echoed  in  turn. 
"It's  not  at  all  that  I  disapprove,  Miss  15ar- 
ton;  on  the  contrary,  I  admire  it;  it  's  only  that 
one  's  surprised  to  find  a  woman,  or  for  the 
matter  of  that  anybody,  acting  up  to  his  or  her 
convictions.  That's  what  I  've  always  felt; 
't  is  the  Nemesis  of  reason ;  if  people  begin  by 
thinking  rationally,  the  danger  is  that  they 
may  end  by  acting  rationally  also." 

Herminia  laughed.  "I'm  afraid,"  she  an- 
swered, "I've  already  reached  that  pass. 
You  '11  never  find  me  hesitate  to  do  anything 
on  earth,  once  I  'm  convinced  it  's  right,  merely 


«MM«1 


i 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


17 


because  other  people  think  differently  on  the 
subject." 

Alan  looked  at  her  and  mused.  She  was  tall 
and  stately,  but  her  fiL;ure  was  well  develoi)ed, 
and  her  form  softly  moulded.  He  admired  her 
immensely.  How  incongruous  an  outcome  from 
a  clerical  family!  *'  It 's  curious,"  he  said,  gaz- 
ing hard  at  her,  **that  you  should  be  a  dean's 
daughter." 

"On  the  contrary,"  Herminia  answered,  with 
perfect  frankness,  '*  I  regard  myself  as  a  living 
proof  of  the  doctrine  of  heredity." 

"Howso.^"   Alan  inquired, 

"Well,  my  father  was  a  Senior  Wrangler," 
Herminia  replied,  blushing  faintly;  "and  I  sup- 
pose that  implies  a  certain  moderate  develop- 
ment of  the  logical  faculties.  In  Jiis  generation, 
people  didn't  apply  the  logical  faculties  to  the 
grounds  of  belief;  they  took  those  for  granted; 
but  vv  thin  his  own  limits,  my  father  is  still  an 
acute  reasoner.  And  then  he  had  always  the 
ethical  and  social  interests.  Those  two  things 
—  a  love  of  logic,  and  a  love  of  right — arc 
the  forces  that  tend  to  make  us  what  we  call 
religious.  Worldly  people  don't  care  for  fun- 
damental questions  of  the  universe  at  all,  they 
accept  passively  whatever  is  told  them ;  they 
think  they  think,  and  believe  they  believe  it. 
But    people   with   an    interest    in   fundamental 

z 


i8 


THE   WOMAN  WHO    DID. 


r 


truth  inquire  for  themselves  into  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  cosmos;  if  they  are  convinced  one 
way,  they  become  what  we  call  theologians;  if 
they  are  convinced  the  other  way,  they  become 
what  we  call  free-thinkers.  Interest  in  the 
problem  is  common  to  both;  it's  the  nature 
of  the  solution  alone  that  differs  in  the  two 
cases." 

"That's  quite  true,"  Alan  assented.  "And 
have  you  ever  noticed  this  curious  corollary, 
that  you  and  I  can  talk  far  more  sympathetically 
with  an  earnest  Catholic,  for  example,  or  an 
earnest  Evangelical,  than  we  can  talk  with  a 
mere  ordinary  worldly  person." 

"Oh  dear,  yes,"  Herminia  answered  with 
conviction.  "Thought  will  always  sympathize 
with  thought.  It  's  the  unthinking  mass  one 
can  get  no  further  with. " 

Alan  changed  the  subject  abruptly.  This 
girl  so  interested  him.  She  was  the  girl  he 
had  imagined,  the  girl  ^'^  nad  dreamt  of,  the 
girl  he  had  thought  possible,  but  never  yet  met 
with.  "And  you're  in  lodgings  on  the  Holm- 
wood  here.-*  "  he  said,  musing.  "  For  how  much 
longer.^" 

"For  six  weeks,  I  'm  glad  to  say,"  Herminia 
answered,  rising. 

"  At  what  cottage  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Burke's,  — not  far  from  the  station." 


<"^«'>.»«..^,-i^'fl 


THE    WOMAN   WJiq   nri). 


'9 


"May  I  come  to  sec  you  there?" 
Hcrminia's    elear    brown    eves    r^ze.l      I 
^t  J^^ni,    all    puzzlement       "  Wh       "      ,      ''^'''" 
answered-  "J   sh.ll    i       ,  ,-        ^^'   surely,"    she 

y  Liiini^^s,     she  went  on-   'Snr?   ,>  • 
to  find   a    man   whn  ^   ^  ^^  ^^^^ 

'''."-  lon.C  :;  ir  J"''-^'-  vviU,    the 

"J"  tlic  morning,  after  brcakfist        tu  .   ■ 
at  eight  o'clock,"  Hcrmini.  ''^'^'  -'^at  ,s, 

''oHater,  after  h,ni;^v;rtr''r '■■'"- 
"  Six  weeks  "    \  I  thereabouts.  " 

than  to   h'r   '  Th  '  ^  "'""'"';  ""^'-'  ^"  '''■--'f 

Not  a  moment  0    the    '  "'''  """  i'^---"^- 
I  think  ••  h  "'   """"'   '''^  '«st.      "Then 

Ijh,„k.^^hcwentonc,uietly,"l,hancanto 

n.ini;.:ii;tr'^  '^'"■'-^'^  ^-^'^  --  j^- 

answered  „oTi;inl  T"  ""  "'"^'-"  '"^-  '^«  ^i^'-' 
soul  should  em  in  sr\^''''  "^''^  '^'""■■>-'d 
acquaintance  "''  '  '^"'■''y  '"  ^-"'-'w  her 


»> 


20 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    HID. 


II. 


Next  afternoon,  about  t'vo  o'clock,  Alan  called 
with  a  tremulous  heart  at  the  cottage.  Iler- 
minia  had  heard  not  a  little  of  hir.i  meanwhile 
from  her  friend  Mrs.  Dewsbury.  "He's  a 
charming  young  man,  my  dear,"  the  woman 
of  the  w  )rld  observv^d  with  confidence.  "I  felt 
quite  sure  you  'd  attract  one  another.  He  's  so 
clever  and  advanced,  and  everything  that  's 
dreadful, — just  like  yourself,  Ilerminia.  lUit 
then  he  's  also  very  well  connected.  That 's 
always  something,  especially  when  one  's  an 
oddity.  You  would  n't  go  down  one  bit  your- 
self, dear,  if  you  were  n't  a  dean's  daughter. 
The  shadow  of  a  cathedral  steeple  covers  a  mul- 
titutle  of  sins.  Mr.  Merrick  's  the  son  of  the 
famous  London  gout  doctor,  — you  must  know 
his  name,  —  all  the  roval  dukes  flock  to  him. 
He's  a  barrister  himself,  and  in  excellent  prac- 
tice. You  might  (h)  worse,  do  you  know,  than 
to  go   in  for  ^Man    Meirick. " 

Herminia's    lip    curleil   an    almost    imj^ercep- 
tible   curl  as   she    answered    gravely,    "  I   tlon't 


''«E*t(«^,t,»jS5*''1| 


i 


THE   WOMAN-    WHO    DID.  ^I 

thi,,k  you  cuitc  „n.lersta,nl   my  p,,,,^   ,,   ,,-^. 

to  ,,^.  .Wo.  anybody   ''''^'''"■^"''  ''"-"'■- 

li"t   Mrs.    Dcn..sb„ry  shook   her   head      '^l, 
knew  the  world  .she  lived  i„.     "A,      v-,,^''; 
a  great  many  ^irls  talk-  in-.  ,i        '  ''''"■'' 

•si-  answereiat      ce  with    ,    "^^'V'-f'"-^'''--'^!." 

"but  when  the  r    iu  '""^  ^"'^'-fy  KHb„ess; 

lieu   uie  uir|,t  p,^     turned   iit>    H,  .„ 

foi-Sot   their  protestations       U  ^^  """" 

difference    dear    >vl,  "'■''"■'■'  ''^  '"'   "f 

>.(-'-,  deal,  when  a  man  real'y  asks  yon  '  " 

Herminia   bent    her   he-i.l       "V  V '" ' 

■stand  me, -she  replied      •'    don >""   """"'•'^"■ 
I  will  never  fall  in  love      I  ;"'"'  '"  '^^'^ 

V'-'^  ^™>  to  it tanki;,  !!riV: ::- '^^^^^^^ 

P  ace   in   life.      I    only   me  n    to       "  7'T ^ 

thmk  anything  will  ever  induce  me   n'  "' 

tliat  is  to  s.ay,  legally.-  "'  '°  '"•''"■>••- 

Mrs.  Dewsbmy  <rave  a  si-,,t     ( 

ho-or.      She    reluy    did;vr',"'-'^"'r'''^'-'-'""' 
-rocomin.tono4d       'l^i;;^^'''''    «-'-s 

her  first   princinlr-    ,  ^^'^^^^  consulerin- 

'•f  only  .she    r^:;ertV""'""'''  "•^'""'-      ''"' 

noon,   she  would  ',  "'"'^'  ^''s't^'r  that  after- 
•-^■Hcf  tlK^  i  r,  ,^'- ,-"«™H-d   in    her 

conclu.Xn  C  Dew" '•'''•■■'■  «■'■'••«•      '"  -''ich 
h- been  fu!i;j;,i:«;:;"->'-"'''"--ti.c  end 

VVI..n  Alan  arrived,  Herminia  sat  at  the  win. 


':^^Jfi■^ftf,^?,Jrmfftim^ift<'i'Miff0 


r'«Mil>awr<«K,,#^ 


22 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


dow  by  the  quaintly  clipped  box-tree,  a  volume 
of  verse  held  half  closed  in  her  hand,  thor.ij;h 
she  was  a  great  deal  too  honest  and  transparent 
to  pretend  she  was  reading  it.  She  expected 
Alan  to  call,  in  accordance  with  his  promise, 
for  she  had  seen  at  Mrs.  Dewsbury's  how  great 
an  impression  she  produced  upon  him;  and, 
having  taught  herself  that  it  was  every  true 
woman's  duty  to  avoid  the  affectations  and  self- 
deceptions  which  the  rule  of  man  has  begotten 
in  women,  she  did  n't  try  to  conceal  from  her- 
self the  fact  chat  she  on  her  side  was  by  no 
means  without  interest  in  the  question  how 
soon  he  would  pay  her  his  promised  visit.  As 
he  appeared  at  the  rustic  gate  in  the  privet 
hedge,  Herminia  looked  out,  and  changed  color 
with  pleasure  when  she  saw  him  push  it  open. 

"  Oh,  how  nice  of  you  to  look  me  up  so  soon  !  " 
she  cried,  jumping  from  her  seat  (with  just  a 
glance  at  the  glass)  and  strolling  out  bare- 
headed into  the  cottage  garden.  "Is  n't  this  a 
charming  place .^  Only  look  at  our  hollyhocks! 
Consider  what  an  oasis  after  six  months  of 
London ! " 

She  seemed  even  prettier  than  last  night,  in 
her  simple  white  morning  dress,  a  mere  ordi- 
nary luiglish  gown,  without  affectation  of  any 
sort,  yet  touched  with  some  faint  reminiscence 
of   a  flowing   Greek   chiton.      Its   half-classical 


t 


\  I 


I 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


23 


drapery  exactly  suited  the  severe   rei^ularity  of 
her   i)ensive    features   and   her   L;raecful    fi<^ure 
Alan  thoug-ht  as  he  looked  at  her  he  had  never 
before  seen  anybody  who  appeared  at  all  points 
so  nearly  to  approach  his  ideal  of  womanhood. 
She  was  at  once  so  hi^h   in  type,  so  serene,  so 
tranquil,  and  yet  so  purely  womanly. 

"Yes,    it    is  a    lovely   place,"    he   answered, 
looking   around   at    the    clematis    that   drooped 
from    the    gable-ends.      ''I'm    staying    myself 
with  the  Watertons  at  the  Park,  but  I  \\  rather 
have  this  pretty  little  rose-bowered  garden  than 
all  their  balustrades  and  Italian  terraces.     The 
cottagers   have   chosen   the   better   part.      What 
gillyflowers  and  what   columbines!     And    here 
you   look  out   so  directly  on    the  common.      I 
love   the    gorse   and    the    bracken,    I    love    the 
stagnant   pond,  I   love  the  very  geese  that   tug 
hard  at  the  silverweed,  they  make   it  all  seem 
so  deliciously  English." 

"Shall    we    walk    to   the    ridge .>"    Herminia 
asked  with  a  sudden  burst  of  suggestion.      "  It  's 
too  rare  a  day  to  waste  a  minute  of  it  indoors 
I  was  waiting  till  you  came.     We  can  talk  all 
the  freer  for  the  fresh  air  on  the  hill-top." 

Nothing  could  have  suited  Alan  Merrick 
better,  and  he  said  so  at  once.  Herminia  dis- 
appeared for  a  moment  to  get  her  hat.  Man 
observed  almost  without  observing  it   that  she 


':'-'•> '§^,)ftnfU^¥9<''>:^:-^» 


El  I 

i 


24 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


I  i 


was  gone  but  for  a  second.  She  asked  none  of 
that  h:)ng  interval  that  most  women  require  for 
the  simplest  matter  of  toilet.  She  was  back 
again  almost  instantly,  bright  and  fresh  and 
smiling,  in  the  most  modest  of  hats,  set  so  art- 
lessly on  her  head  that  it  became  her  better 
than  all  art  could  have  made  it.  Then  they 
started  for  a  long  stroll  across  the  breezy  com- 
mon, yellow  in  places  with  upright  spikes  of 
small  summer  furze,  and  pink  with  wild  pea- 
blossom.  Bees  buzzed,  broom  crackled,  the 
chirp  of  the  field-cricket  rang  shrill  from  the 
sand-banks.  Herminia's  light  foot  tripped  over 
the  spongy  turf.  By  the  top  of  the  furthest 
ridge,  looking  down  on  North  Holmwood 
church,  they  sat  side  by  side  for  a  while  on 
the  close  short  grass,  brocaded  with  daisies,  and 
gazed  across  at  the  cropped  sward  of  Denbies 
and  the  long  line  of  the  North  Downs  stretching 
away  towards  Reigate.  Tender  grays  and  greens 
melted  into  one  another  on  the  larches  hard  by; 
Betchworth  chalk-pit  gleamed  dreamy  white  in 
the  middle  distance.  They  had  been  talking 
earnestly  all  the  way,  like  two  old  friends 
together;  for  they  were  both  of  them  young, 
and  they  felt  at  once  that  nameless  bond  which 
often  draws  one  closer  to  a  new  acquaintance 
at  first  sight  than  years  of  converse.  "  How 
seriously  you  look  at  life,"  Alan  cried  at  last, 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


25 


in  answer  to  one  of  Ilcrminia's  .c:raver  thoughts. 
"I  wonder  what  makes  you  take  it  so  niueh 
more  earnestly  than  all  other  women?" 

"It  came  to  me  all  at  once  when  I  was  about 
sixteen,"    Herminia  answered  with   quiet   com- 
posure, like  one  who  remarks  upon  some  objec- 
tive fact  of  exernal  nature.      "  It  came  to  me  in 
listening  to  a  sermon  of  my  father's,  — which  I 
always   look  upon  as  one  more  instance  of  the 
force   of   heredity.      He   was   preaching   on    the 
text,  '  The  Truth  shall  uiake  you  Free,'  and  all 
that  he  said  about    it   seemed  to   me  strangely 
alive,  to  be  heard  from  a  pulpit.      He  said  we 
ought  to  seek  the  Truth  before  all   things,  and 
never  to  rest  till  we  felt  sure  we  had  found   it. 
We  should  not  suffer  our  souls  to  be  beguiled 
into   believing  a  falsehood    merely   because   we 
wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to  find  out  the  Truth 
for  ourselves   by  searching.      We   must  dig   for 
it;  we  must  grope  after  it.      And  as  bespoke, 
I  made  up  my  mind,    in  a  flash   of  resolution! 
to  find  out  the  Truth  for  myself  about   every- 
thing, and  never  to  be  deterred  from  seeking  it, 
and  embracing   it,  and  ensuing   it  when  found,' 
by  any  convention  or  preconception.     Then  he 
went  on  to  say  how  the  Truth  would  make    us 
Free,  and  I  felt  he  was  right.      It  would  open 
our  eyes,    and  emancipate  us  from   social  and 
moral  slaveries.     So  I  made  up  my  mind,  at  the 


if 


26 


THE   WOMAN   WIU)    DID. 


same  time,  that  wlicncvcr  I  found  the  Truth 
I  would  not  scrujilc  to  follow  it  to  its  lo>^ical 
conclusions,  but  would  practise  it  in  my  life, 
and  let  it  make  me  Free  with  perfect  freedom. 
Then,  in  search  of  Truth,  I  got  my  father  to 
send  me  to  Girton;  and  when  I  had  lighted 
on  it  there  half  by  accident,  and  it  had  made  x/.e 
Free  indeed,  I  went  away  from  Girton  again, 
because  I  saw  if  I  stopped  there  I  could  never 
achieve  and  guard  my  freedom.  From  that 
day  forth  I  have  aimed  at  nothing  but  to  know 
the  Truth,  and  to  act  upon  it  freely;  for,  as 
Tennyson  says,  — 

'  To  live  by  law 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear, 
And  because  right  is  right  to  follow  right, 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence.'  '* 


I 


i 


She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  looking  up,  let 
her  eye  rest  for  a  second  on  the  dark  thread  of 
clambering  pines  that  crest  the  down  just  above 
Brockham.  "This  is  dreadfully  egotistical," 
she  cried,  with  a  sharp  little  start.  "  I  ought 
to  apologize  for  talking  so  much  to  you  about 
my  own  feelings." 

Alan  gazed  at  her  and  smiled.  "Why  apol- 
ogize," he  asked,  "for  managing  to  be  interest- 
ing.^ You  arc  not  egotistical  at  all.  What  you 
are  telling  me  is  history, —  the  history  of  a  soul, 


11 


\ 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


27 


which  is  always  the  one  thin^i;  on  earth  wo'-th 
hearing.      I  take  it   as   a   compliment  that   you 
should  hold  me  worthy  to  hear  it.      It  is  a  proof 
of  confidence.      Besides,"  he   went   on,   after  a 
second's  pause,  "  I  am  a  man ;  you  are  a  woman. 
Under  those  circumstances,  what  would   other- 
wise be  egotism  becomes  common  and  mutual. 
When  two  people  sympathize  with  one  another, 
all  they  can  say  about  themselves  loses  its  [)er- 
sonal   tinge  and  merges   into   pure   human  and 
abstract  interest. " 

Herminia  brought  back  her  eyes  from  infinity 
to  his  face..  "That's  true,"  she  said  frankly. 
"The  magic  link  of  sex  that  severs  and  unites 
us  makes  all  the  difference.  And,  indeed,  I 
confess  I  would  n't  so  have  spoken  of  my 
inmost  feelings  to  another  woman." 


r 


28 


THE   WOMAN    WHU   DID. 


III. 


4 


From  that  day  forth,  Alan  and  Ilerminia  met 
frequently.     Alan  was  given  to  sketching,  and 
he  sketched  a  great  deal    in  his   idle  times  on 
the  common.     He  translated  the  cottages  from 
real    estate    into    poetry.      On    such    occasions, 
Herminia's   walks    often   led   her    in    the   same 
direction.      For  Herminia  was  frank;  she  liked 
the   young  man,   and,    the   truth    having   made 
her  free,   she  knew  no  reason  why  she   should 
avoid   or  pretend   to  avoid   his  company.      She 
had  no  fear  of  that  sordid    impersonal  goddess 
who  rules  Thilistia;  it  mattered  not  to  her  what 
"people  said,"  or  whether  or  not  they  said  any- 
thing about  her.      "Aiunt:  quid  aiunt.?    aiant," 
was   her  motto.     Could    she    have  known   to 'a 
certainty  that    her   meetings  on    the    common 
with   Alan    Merrick    had    excited    unfavorable 
comment  among  the  old  ladies  of   Holm  wood, 
the  point  would  have  seemed  to  her  ui. worthy 
of   an  emancipated   soul's   consideration.      She 
could   estimate  at   its  true  worth   the  value  of 
all  human  criticism  upon  human  action. 


f 


THE   WOMAN   WIID    Dm.  29 

So,  (lay  after  day,  she  met  Alan  Merrick,  half 
by  accident,    half   by   desi-n,   on    the   slopes   of 
the   Holm  wood.      They   talked    much   to<;ether, 
for  Alan    liked   her   and   understood    her.      His 
heart  went  out  to  her.      Comjxact  of  like  clay, 
he  knew  the  meaning  of  her  hopes  and  aspira- 
tions.     Often  as  he  sketched  he  would   look  up 
and  wait,  expecting  to  catch  the  faint  sound  of 
her   light   step,   or  see   her   lithe   figure   poised 
breezy   against    the    sky    on     the    neighboring 
ridges.     Whenever   she   drew    near,    his    pulse 
thrilled  at  her  coming,  —a  somewhat  unusual 
experience    with     Alan     Merrick.      I^\,r    Alan, 
though   a  pure   soul    in   his  way,  and    mixed   of 
the  finer  paste,  was  not  quite  like  those  best  of 
men,  who  are,   so  to   speak,  born   married.     A 
man  with  an  innate  genius  for  loving  and  being 
loved    cannot    long    remain    single.^   He    must 
marry  young;  or  at  least,  if  he  docs  not  marry, 
he   must    find    a    comi)ani()n,    a    woman    to    his 
heart,   a  help  that   is   meet   for   him.      What  is 
commonly  called  prudence  in  such  concerns  is 
only  another  name  for  vice  and  cruelty.     The 
purest  and  best  of  men  necessarily  mate  them- 
selves  before  they  are  twenty.      As   a   rule,  it 
is   the  selfish,    the  mean,    the  calculating,  vvho 
wait,    as    they   say,    "till    they   can    afford    to 
marry."     That  vile  phrase  scarcely  veils  hidden 
depths   of  depravity.     A  man  who   is  really  a 


( 


30 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


man,  and  who  has  a  ijjcnius  for  lovincj,  must 
love  from  the  very  first,  and  must  feci  himself 
surrounded  by  tliose  who  love  him.  'T  is  the 
first  necessity  of  life  to  him;  bread,  meat,  rai- 
ment, a  house,  an  income,  rank  far  second  to 
that  prime  want   in  the  ^ood  man's  economy. 

But  Alan  IMerrick,  though  an  excellent  fellow 
in  his  way,  and  of  noble  fibre,  was  not  quite 
one  of  the  first,  the  picked  souls  of  humanity. 
Me  did  not  count  among  the  finger-posts  who 
point  the  way  that  mankind  will  travel.  Though 
Herminia  always  thought  him  so.  That  was 
her  true  woman's  gift  of  the  highest  idealizing 
power.  Indeed,  it  adds,  to  my  mind,  to  the 
tragedy  of  Herminia  Barton's  life  that  the  man 
for  whom  she  risked  and  lost  everything  was 
never  quite  worthy  of  her;  and  that  Herminia 
to  the  end  not  once  suspected  it.  Alan  was 
over  thirty,  and  was  still  "looking  about  him." 
That  alone,  you  will  admit,  is  a  sufficiently 
grave  condemnation.  That  a  man  should  have 
arrived  at  the  ripe  age  of  thirty  and  not  yet  have 
lighted  upon  the  elect  lady  —  the  woman  with- 
out whose  companionship  life  would  be  to  him 
unendurable  is  in  itself  a  strong  proof  of  much 
underlying  selfishness,  or,  what  comes  to  the 
same  thing,  of  a  calculating  disposition.  The 
right  sort  of  man  does  n't  argue  with  himself 
at  all  on  these  matters.      He  doesn't  say  with 


^ 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    Din. 


31 


selfish   coldness,   "I   can't   afford  a  wife;"   or, 
"If   I  marry   now,   I  shall   ruin  my  j^rospects." 
He  feels  and  acts.      He  mates,   like  the  birds, 
because  he  can't  help  himself.     A  woman  crosses 
his  path  who  is  to  him   indispensable,  a  part  of 
himself,  the  needful  complement  of  his  own  per- 
sonality;  and  without  heed  or  hesitation  he  takes 
her  to  himself,  lawfully  or  unlawfully,  because  he 
has  need  of  her.      That  is  how  nature  has  made 
us;  that  is  how  every  man  worthy  of  the  name 
of  man  has  always  felt,  and  thought,  and  acted. 
The  worst  of  all  possible  and  conceivable  checks 
upon  population  is  the  vile  one  which  Malthus 
glossed  over  as  "the  prudential,"  and  which  con- 
sists in   substituting  prostitution  for  marriage 
through  the  spring-tide  of  one's  manhood. 

Alan  Merrick,  however,  was  over  thirty  and 
still  unmarried.  More  than  that,  he  was  heart- 
free,  —  a  very  evil  record.  And,  like  most  other 
unmarried  men  of  thirty,  he  was  a  trifle  fas- 
tidious. He  was  "looking  about  him."  That 
means  to  say,  he  was  waiting  to  find  some 
woman  who  suited  him.  No  man  does  so  at 
twenty.  He  sees  and  loves.  ]^ut  Alan  Mer- 
rick, having  let  slip  the  golden  moment  when 
nature  prompts  every  growing  youth  to  fling 
himself  with  pure  devotion  at  the  feet  of  the 
first  good  angel  who  happens  to  cross  his  path 
and  attract  his  worship,  had  now  outlived   the 


32 


THE  WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


ti  i 


early  flush  of  pure  passion,  and  was  thinking 
only  ot  "  coniforlably  scttliui;  himself."  In  one 
word,   when  a   man    is   vounLC,    he  asks  himself 


'ft>> 


with  a  thrill  what  he  can  do  to  make  hapjiy 
this  sweet  soul  he  loves;  when  he  has  let  that 
critical  moment  flow  by  him  unseized,  he  asks 
only,  in  cold  blood,  what  woman  will  most 
agreeably  make  life  run  smooth  for  him.  The 
first  stage  is  pure  love;  the  second,  pure 
selfishness. 

Still,  Alan  Merrick  was  now  "getting  on  in 
his  profession,"  and,  as  people  said,  it  was 
high  time  he  should  be  settled.  They  said  it 
as  they  might  have  said  it  was  high  time  he 
should  take  a  business  partner.  From  that 
lowest  depth  of  emotional  disgrace  Hcrminia 
Barton  was  to  preserve  him.  It  was  her  task 
in  life,  though  she  knew  it  not  to  save  Alan 
Merrick's  soul.      And  nobly  she  s^ved  it. 

Alan,  "looking  about  him,"  wdth  some  fine 
qualities  of  nature  underlying  in  the  back- 
ground that  mean  social  philosophy  of  the  class 
from  which  he  sprang,  fell  frankly  in  love 
almost  at  first  sight  with  Herminia.  He  ad- 
mired and  respected  her.  More  than  that,  he 
understood  her.  She  had  power  in  her  purity 
to  raise  his  nature  for  a  time  to  something 
approaching  her  own  high  level.  True  woman 
has  the  real   Midas   cfift:  all   that   she   touches 


THK   WOMAN    WHO   DH) 


33 


turns  to   purest    -old.      Secin-  Ilerminia  much 
and  talking  with   her,  Alan  could   not  tail   to  be 
impressed  with  the   idea  that   here  was   a   soul 
which  could  do  a  great  deal  more  for  him  than 
"make  him  comfortable,"  — which  could  raise 
him  to  moral  heights  he  had  hardly  yet  dreamt 
of,— which  could  wake  in  him  the  best  of  which 
he  was  capable.      And  watching  her  thus,  he  soon 
fell   in  love  with  her,  as  few  men  of  thirty  are 
able  to  fall   in  love  for  the  first  time,  —as  the 
young    man    falls    in    love,    with    the    unselfish 
energy  of   an    unspoilt    nature.      He   asked    no 
longer  whether  Ilerminia  was  the   sort   of   girl 
who    could    make    him    comfortable;    he   askeu 
only,  with  that  delicious  tremor  of  self-distrust 
which  belongs  to  mrive  youth,  whether  he  dare 
offer   himself   to    one   so    pure   and    good    and 
beautiful.     And    his   hesitation    was    justified- 
for  our  sordid    England   has  not  brought  forth 
many  such  serene  and  single-minded  ^  souls  as 
Herminia  Barton. 

At  last  one  afternoon  they  had  climbed 
together  the  steep  red  face  of  the  sandy  slope 
that  rises  abruptly  from  the  Ilolmwood  towards 
Lcith  Hill,  by  the  Robin  Gate  entrance.  Near 
the  top,  they  had  seated  themselves  on  a  carpet 
of  sheep-sorrel,  looking  out  across  the  impertur- 
bable expanse  of  the  Weald,  and  the  broad  pas- 
tures of  Sussex.     A  solemn  blue  haze  brooded 


34 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


.1 


14 


soft  over  the  land.  The  sun  was  sinkiiiG^  low; 
ol:)lique  afternoon  lii^hts  flooded  the  distant 
South  Downs.  Their  con.bes  came  out  aslant 
in  saucer-shajied  shadows.  Alan  turned  and 
gazed  at  Ilerminia;  she  was  hot  with  clinibini;, 
and  her  calm  face  was  flushed.  A  town-bred 
girl  would  have  looked  red  and  blows3/";  but  the 
color  and  the  exertion  just  suited  Herminia. 
On  that  healthy  brown  cheek  it  seemed  natural 
to  discern  the  visible  marks  of  effort.  Alan 
gazed  at  her  with  a  sudden  rush  of  untram- 
melled feelinii.  The  elusive  outline  of  her 
grave  sweet  face,  the  wistful  eyes,  the  ripe  red 
mouth  enticed  him.  ''Oh,  Ilerminia,"  he  cried, 
calling  her  for  the  first  time  by  her  Christian 
name  alone,  "  how  glad  I  am  I  happened  to  go 
that  afternoon  to  Mrs.  Dewsbury's.  For  other- 
wise perhaps  I  might  never  have  known  you." 

Ilerminia's  heart  gave  a  delicious  bound. 
She  was  a  woman,  and  therefore  she  was  glad 
he  should  speak  so.  She  was  a  woman,  and 
therefore  she  shrank  from  acknowledging  it. 
But  she  looked  him  back  in  the  face  tranquilly, 
none  the  less  on  that  account,  and  answered 
with  sweet  candor,  "Thank  you  so  much,  Mr. 
Merrick." 

"  /said  *  Ilerminia, '  "  the  young  man  corrected, 
smiling,  yet  aghast  at  his  own  audacity. 

"And   I   thciuked   you  for   it,"  Ilerminia  an- 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


35 


swcrcd,  casting  down  those  dark  lashes,  and 
feeling  the  heart  throb  violently  under  her  neat 
bodice. 

Alan  drew  a  deep  breath.      "And  it  was  that 
you  thanked  me  for,"  he  ejaculated,  tin'^lin'r. 

"Yes,  it  was  that  I  thanked  you  for,"  Hor- 
minia  answered,  with  a  still  deei)er  rose  si)read- 
ing  down  to  her  bare  throat.  "1  like  you  very 
much,  and  it  pleases  me  to  hear  you  call  me 
Herminia.  Why  should  I  shrink  from  admit- 
ting it.?  "r  is  the  Truth,  you  know;  antl  the 
Truth  shall  make  us  Free.  I  'm  not  afraid  of 
my  freedom." 

Alan  paused  for  a  second,  irresolute.  "Her- 
minia," he  said  at  last,  leaning  forward  till  his 
face  was  very  close  to  hers,  and  he  could  feel 
the  warm  breath  that  came  a»id  went  so  quickly; 
"that  's  very,  very  kind  of  you.  I  need  n't  tell 
you  I  've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  you 
these  last  three  weeks  or  so.  You  have  filled 
my  mind;  filled  it  to  the  brim,  and  I  think  you 
know  it." 

Philosopher  as  she  was,  Herminia  plucked  a 
blade  of  grass,  and  drew  it   quivering  through 
her  tremulous  fingers.      It  caught  and  hesitatc^d. 
"I  guessed  as   much,    I   think,"  she  answered, 
low  but  frankly. 

The  young  man's  heart  gave  a  bound.      "And 
you,  Herminia.?  "  he  asked,  in  an  eager  ecstasy. 


36 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


Hcrminia  was  true  to  the  Truth.  "I've 
thought  a  great  deal  about  you  too,  Mr.  Mer- 
rick," she  answered,  looking  down,  but  with  a 
great  gladness  thrilling  her. 

"  I  said  *  Herminia, '  "  the  young  man  repeated, 
with  a  marked  stress  on  the  Christian  name. 

Herminia  hesitated  a  second.  Then  two 
crimson  spots  flared  forth  on  her  speaking  face, 
as  she  answered  with  an  effort,  "  About  you 
too,   Alan." 

The  young  man  drew  back  and  gazed  at  her. 

She  was  very,  very  beautiful.  "Dare  I  ask 
you,  Herminia?"  he  cried.  "Have  I  a  right 
to  ask  you .''  Am  I  worthy  of  you,  I  mean  ? 
Ought  I  to  retire  as  not  your  peer,  and  leave 
you  to  some  man  who  could  rise  more  easily 
to  the  height  of  your  dignity.?" 

"I've  thought  about  that  too,"  Herminia 
answered,  still  firm  to  her  principles.  "  I  've 
thought  it  all  over.  I  *ve  said  to  myself.  Shall 
I  do  right  in  monopolizing  him,  when  he  is  so 
great,  and  sweet,  and  true,  and  generous.^  Not 
monopolizing,  of  course,  for  that  would  be  wrong 
and  selfish;  but  making  you  my  own  more  than 
any  otiier  woman's.  And  I  answered  my  own 
heart,  Yes,  yes,  I  shall  do  right  to  accept  him, 
if  he  asks  me;  for  I  love  him,  that  is  enough. 
The  thrill  within  me  tells  me  so.  Nature  put 
that  thrill  in  our  souls  to  cry  out  to  us  with  a 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


17 


clear  voice  when  we  had  met  the  soul  she  then 

and  there  intended  for  us." 

Alan's  face  flushed  like  her  own.  "Then 
you  love  me,"  he  cried,  all  on  fire.  "And  you 
dei-n  to  tell  me  so;  Oh,  Herminia,  how  sweet 
you  are.     What  have  I  done  to  deserve  it }  " 

He    folded    her   in    his    arms.     Her   bosom 
throbbed  on  his.     Their  lips  met  for  a  second 
Hermmia  took  his  kiss  with  sweet  submission 
and  made  no  faint  pretence  of  fi-htin-  a-ainst 
It.     Her  heart  was  full.     She  quickened  to  the 
finr^^er-tips. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  two,  —the 
silence  when  soul   speaks  direct  to  soul  throu-h 
the  vehicle  of  touch,  the  mother-tongue  of  the 
affections.     Then  Alan  leaned  back  once  more 
and  hanging  over  her  in  a  rapture   murmured 
in  soft  low  tones,  'So  Herminia,  you  will   be 
mme!     You  say  beforehand  you  will  take  me." 
"Not  ivill  be  yours,"  Herminia  corrected  in 
that  silvery  voice  of  hers.      "  Am  yours  already 
Alan.      I  somehow  feel  as  if  I  had  always  been 
yours.      I  am  yours  this  moment.      You  may  do 
what  you  would  with  me." 

She  said  it  so  simi)]y,  so  purely,  so  naturally 
with  all  the  supreme  faith  of  the  good  woman 
enamoured,    who  can  yield    herself  up  without 
blame  to  the  man  who  loves  her,  that  it  hardly 
even  occurred  to  Alan's  mind  to  wonder  at  her 


38 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


sclf-surrcndcr.  Yet  he  drew  back  all  the  same 
in  a  sudden  little  crisis  of  doubt  and  uncer- 
tainty. He  scarcely  realized  what  she  meant. 
"Then,  dearest,"  he  cried  tentatively,  "how 
soon  may  we  be  married  ? " 

At  sound  of  those  unexpected  words  from 
such  lips  as  his,  a  flush  of  shame  and  horror 
overspread  Herminia's  cheek.  "Never!"  she 
cried  firmly,  drawing  away.  "  Oh,  Alan,  what 
can  you  mean  by  it.^  Don't  tell  me,  after  all 
I  've  tried  to  make  you  feel  and  understand, 
you  thought  I  could  possibly  consent  to  marry 
you.?" 

The  man  gazed  at  her  in  surprise.  Though 
he  was  prepared  for  much,  he  was  scarcely  pre- 
pared for  such  devotion  to  principle.  "Oh, 
Herminia,"  he  cried,  "you  can't  mean  it.  You 
can't  have  thought  of  what  it  entails.  Surely, 
surely,  you  won't  carry  your  ideas  of  freedom 
to  such  an  extreme,  such  a  dangerous  conclu- 
sion !  " 

Herminia  looked  up  at  him,  half  hurt. 
"Can't  have  thought  of  what  it  entails!"  she 
repeated.  Her  dimples  deepened.  "Why, 
Alan,  haven't  I  had  my  whole  lifetime  to  think 
of  it.**  What  else  have  I  thought  about  in  any 
serious  way,  save  this  one  great  question  of  a 
woman's  duty  to  herself,  and  her  sex,  and  her 
unborn    children.?     It's    been    my    sole   study. 


i\\ 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DIP. 


39 


How  could  you  fancy  I  spoke  hastily,  or  with. 

out  due  consideration  on  such  a  subject? 
Would  you  have  me  like  the  blind  girls  who 
go  unknowing  to  the  altar,  as  sheep  go  to  the 
shambles?  Could  you  suspect  me  of  such  care- 
lessness ?  —  such  culpable  thoughtlessness  ?  — 
you,  to  whom  I  have  spoken  of  all  this  so 
freely  ?  " 

Alan  stared  at  her,  disconcerted,  hardly 
knowing  how  to  answer.  *'  But  what  alterna- 
tive do  you  propose,  then?"  he  asked  in  his 
amazement. 

"Propose?"  rierminia  repeated,  taken  aback 
in  her  turn.  It  all  seemed  to  her  so  plain,  and 
transparent,  and  natural.  ''Why,  simply  that 
we  should  be  friends,  like  any  othei3,  very  dear, 
dear  friends,  with  the  only  kind  of  friendship 
that  nature  makes  possible  between  men  and 
women. " 

She  said  it  so  softly,  with  some  womanly 
gentleness,  yet  with  such  lofty  candor,  that 
Alan  couldn't  help  admiring  her  more  than 
ever  before  for  her  translucent  simplicity,  and 
directness  of  purpose.  Yet  her  suggestion 
frightened  him.  It  was  so  much  more  novel 
to  him  than  to  her.  Herminia  had  reasoned 
It  all  out  with  herself,  as  she  truly  said,  for 
years,  and  knew  exactly  how  she  felt  and 
thought   about    it.      To   Alan,  on   the   contrary, 


I 


40 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


i  ^ 
I;  i 


it  came  with  the  shock  of  a  sudden  surprise, 
and  he  could  hardly  tell  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  how  to  deal  with  it.  He  paused  and 
reflected.  "lUitdo  you  mean  to  say,  lierminia," 
he  asked,  still  holdin<^  that  soft  brown  hand 
unresisted  in  his,  "you've  made  up  your  mind 
never  to  marry  any  one.''  made  up  your  mind  to 
brave  the  whole  mad  world,  that  can't  possibly 
understand  the  motives  of  your  conduct,  and  live 
with  some  friend,  as  you  put  it,  unmarried.''  " 

"Yes,  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  Herminia 
answered,  with  a  faint  tremor  in  her  maidenly 
voice,  but  with  hardly  a  trace  now  of  a  trait- 
orous blush,  where  no  blush  was  needed.  "  I  've 
made  up  my  mind,  Alan;  and  from  all  we  had 
said  and  talked  over  together,  I  thought  you 
at  least  would  sympathize  in  my  resolve." 

She  spoke  .vith  a  gentle  tinge  of  regret,  nay 
almost  of  disillusion.  The  bare  suggestion  of 
that  regret  stung  Alan  to  the  quick.  He  felt 
it  was  shame  to  him  that  he  could  not  rise  at 
once  to  the  height  of  her  splendid  self-renuncia- 
tion. "  You  mistake  me,  dearest,"  he  answered, 
petting  her  hand  in  his  own  (and  she  allowed 
him  to  pet  it).  "It  was  n't  for  myself,  or  for 
the  world  I  hesitated.  My  thought  was  for 
you.  You  are  very  young  yet.  You  say  you 
have  counted  the  cost.  I  wonder  if  you  have. 
I  wonder  if  you  realize  it." 


TIIF    WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


41 


"Only  too  well,"  Herminia  replied,  in  a  very 
earnest  mood.  "I  have  wroui^ht  it  all  out  in 
my  mind  beforehand, —covenanted  with  my 
soul  that  for  women's  sake  I  would  be  a  free 
woman.  Alan,  whoever  would  be  free  must 
himself  strike  the  blow.  I  know  what  you 
will  say, -—what  every  man  would  say  to  the 
woman  he  loved  under  similar  circumstances, 
—  'Why  should  you  be  the  victim?  Why 
should  j/^;/   be  the   mr-y,-?     ]}^^^|^    j,^    ^|^^,   ^^^^^ 

yourself;  leave  this  d  om  to  some  other. '     lUit, 
Alan,   I  can't.      I  feel  /  must  face   it.      Unless 
one    woman    begins,    there    will    be   no    bci^in- 
ning."     She  lifted   his   hand   in   her  own,   and 
fondled    it   in   her  turn  with   caressin.i;   tender- 
ness.   "Think  how  easy  it  would  be  for  me,  dear 
friend,"  she  cried,  with   a  catch    in   her  voice, 
"to  do  as  other  women  do;  to  accept  the  liotl 
omblc  marriaac  you  offer   me,  as   other  women 
would  call  it;  to  be  false  to  my  sex,  a  traitor 
to  my  convictions;  to  sell  my  kind  for  a  mess 
of  pottage,   a  name  and  a  home,    or  even   for 
thirty  pieces  of  silver,   to  be  some  rich  man's 
wife,  as  other  women  have  sold  it.     ]Uit,  Alan, 
I  can't.      My  conscience  won't  let  me.      I  knovv 
what  marriage  is.  from  what  vile  slavery  it  has 
sprung;  on  what  unseen  horrors  for  my  sister 
women   it   is    reared  and    buttressed;    by  what 
unholy  sacrifices  it  is  sustained,  and  made  pos- 


42 


Tin:  WOMAN  WHO  did. 


;  '1 ; 
■  i 


s\h\Q.  I  know  it  has  a  history.  I  know  its 
past,  I  know  its  present,  and  I  can't  em])race 
it;  I  can't  be  untrue  to  my  most  sacred  beliefs. 
I  can't  pander  to  the  mali^^nant  thing,  just 
because  a  man  who  loves  me  would  be  pleased 
by  my  giving  way  and  would  kiss  mc,  and 
fondle  mc  for  it.  And  I  love  you  to  fondle 
mc.  But  I  must  keep  my  proper  place,  the 
freedom  which  I  have  gained  for  myself  by 
such  arduous  efforts.  I  have  said  to  you  al- 
ready, *  So  far  as  my  will  goes,  I  am  yours; 
take  me,  and  do  as  you  choose  with  me. '  That 
much  I  can  yield,  as  every  good  woman  should 
yield  it,  to  the  man  she  loves,  to  the  man  who 
loves  her.  But  more  than  that,  no.  It  would 
be  treason  to  my  sex;  not  my  life,  not  my 
future,  not  my  individuality,  not  my  freedom." 

"I  wouldn't  ask  you  for  those,"  Alan  an- 
swered, carried  away  by  the  torrent  flood  of 
her  passionate  speech.  "  I  would  wish  you  to 
guard  them.  But,  Herminia,  just  as  a  matter 
of  form,  —  to  prevent  the  world  from  saying 
the  cruel  things  the  world  is  sure  to  say,  — and 
as  an  act  of  justice  to  you,  and  your  children! 
A  mere  ceremony  of  marriage ;  what  more  does 
it  mean  now-a-days  than  that  we  two  agree  to 
live  together  on  the  ordinary  terms  of  civilized 
society.?  " 

Still  Ilcjminia  shook  her  head.     "No,  no," 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


43 


I 


She    cried    vehemently.      "I    deny    and    decline 
those  terms;  they  are  part  and  parcel  of  a  sys- 
tem of  slavery.      I  have  learnt  that  the  ri-hteons 
soul  should  avoid  all  appearance  of  evil.  "  I  will 
not   palter  and   parley  with   the   unholy   thin^,^ 
Even   thou<;h   you   go  to   a    rc-istry-office   ami 
get  rid  as  far  as  you  can  of   every  relic  of  the 
sacerdotal  and  sacramental    idea,  yet   the  mar- 
riage  itself  is  still  an  assertion  of  man's  supre- 
macy over  woman.      It  ties  her  to  him  for  life, 
it  ignores  her  individuality,    it  compels  her  to 
promise   what  no  human   heart    can    be  sure  of 
performing;  for  you  can  contract  to  do  or  not 
to  do,    easily   enough,    but   contract   to   feel  or 
not  to   feel, —what  transparent   absurdity!     It 
is  full  of  all  evils,  and   I  decline  to  consider  it. 
If  I  love  a  man  at  all,  I  must  love  him  on  terms 
of  perfect  freedom.      I  can't  bind  myself  down 
to  live  with    him  to  my  shame  one  day  longer 
than  I  love  him;  or  to  love  him  at  all  if  I  ffnd 
him  unworthy  of  my  purest  love,  or   unable   to 
retain  it;  or  if  I  discover  some  other  more  fit  to 
be  loved  by  me.      You  admitted  the  other  day 
that  all  this  was  abstractly  true;  why  should  you 
wish  this  morning  to  draw  back  from  folluw'ing 
it  out  to  its  end  in  practice.?  " 

Alan  was  only  an  Englishman,  and  shared, 
of  course,  the  inability  of  his  countrymen  to 
carry  any  principle   to    its   logical   conclusion 


44 


Till-:   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


P 


l!  i 


U, 


He  was  all  for  admittini;  that  thoiif;h  thin.cjs 
must  really  be  so,  yet  it  were  priulent  in  life 
to  pretentl  they  were  otherwise.  This  is  the 
well-known  l^iglish  virtue  of  moderation  and 
compromise;  it  has  made  ICnL^land  what  she 
is,  the  shabbiest,  sordidest,  worst-organized  of 
natioUvS.  So  he  paused  for  a  second  and  tem- 
porized.     "It's   for  your  sake,   Herminia,"    he 


said  ajrain ;  "I  can't  bear  to  think  of 


your 


m 


ak- 


ing  yourself  a  martyr.  And  I  don't  see  how, 
if  you  act  as  you  propose,  you  could  escape 
martyrdom." 

Herminia  looked  up  at  him  with  pleading 
eyes.  Tears  just  trembled  on  the  cd^^c  of 
those  glistening  lashes.  "It  never  occurred 
to  me  to  think,"  she  said  gently  but  bravely, 
"my  life  could  ever  end  in  anything  else  but 
martyrdom.  It  ;;///i'/  needs  be  so  with  all  true 
lives,  and  all  good  ones.  For  whoever  sees  the 
truth,  whoever  strives  earnestly  with  all  his 
soul  to  be  good,  must  be  raised  many  planes 
above  the  common  mass  of  men  around  him;  he 
must  be  a  moral  pioneer,  and  the  moral  pioneer 
is  always  a  martyr.  People  won't  allow  others 
to  be  wiser  and  better  than  themselves,  unpun- 
ished. They  can  forgive  anything  except  moral 
superiority.  We  have  each  to  choose  between 
acquiescence  in  the  wrong,  with  a  life  of  ease, 
and  struggle  for  the  right,  crowned  at  last  by 


\ 


TllK    \V(.)MAN    WHO    DID. 


45 


inevitable  failure.      To   succeed   is  to  fail,  and 
failure    is    the   only  success    worth    aiming-   at 
Every  great   and    good   life   can   but   end  "in   a 
Calvary." 

"And  I  want  to  save  you  from  that,"  Alan 
cried,  leaning  over  her  with  real  tenrlcrness, 
for  she  was  already  very  dear  to  him.  -  I  want 
to  save  you  from  yourself;  I  want  to  make  you 
think  twice  before  you  rush  headlong  into  such 
a  danger. " 

"JVot  to   save   me  from  myself,    but   to   save 
me  from   my  own    higher  and   better  nature," 
Herminia    answered    with    passionate    serious- 
ness.    -Alan,    I   don't   want  any   man   to  save 
me   from  that;   I  want  you    rather   to   help  me 
to  strengthen  me,   to   sympathize   with   me      I 
want  you  to  love  me,  not  for  my  face  and  form 
alone,  not   for   what    I    share   with   every   other 
woman,  but  for  all   that   is  holiest  and  deepest 
within   me.      If  you   can't  love  me  for  that,  I 
don't  ask  you  to  love   me;  I  want   to  be  loved 
for  what   I  am    in   myself,  for  the  yearnings   I 
possess  that  are  most  of  all  peculiar  to  me.      I 
know  you  are  attracted   to  me  by  those  yearn- 
ings above    everything;    why   wish    me   untrue 
to  them.?     It  was  because  I  saw  yr)u  could  sym- 
pathize  with  me  in  these  impulses  that  I  said 
to  myself,  Here,  at  last,  is  the  man  who  can  go 
through  life  as  an  aid  and  a  spur  to  me.     Don't 


46 


Tin:   WOMAN  WHO   nil). 


tell  me  I  was  mistaken;  don't  belie  my  belief. 
15c  what  I  th()U,<;ht  yon  were,  what  I  know  you 
arc.  Work  with  me,  and  help  me.  Lift  me! 
raise  me!  exalt  me!  Take  me  on  the  sole 
terms  on  which  I  can  ^mvc  myself  up  to  you." 

She  stretched  her  arms  out,  pleadini;;  she 
turned  those  subtle  eyes  to  him,  appeal in_L,^ly. 
She  was  a  beautiful  woman.  Alan  Merrick  was 
human.  The  man  in  him  p;avcway;  he  seized 
her  in  his  clasp,  and  pressed  her  close  to  his 
bosom.  It  heaved  tumultuously.  "  I  could  do 
anything  for  you,  Herminia,"  he  cried,  "and 
indeed,  I  do  sympathize  with  you.  But  give 
me,  at  least,  till  to-morrow  to  think  ^his 
thing  over.  K  is  a  momentous  question;  -  't 
let  us  be  precipitate." 

Herminia  drew  a  long  breath.  His  embrace 
thrilled  through  her.  "As  you  will,"  she 
answered  with  a  woman's  meekness.  "But 
remember,  Alan,  what  I  say  I  mean;  on  these 
terms  it  shall  be,  and  upon  none  others.  Ikave 
women  before  me  have  tried  .for  awhile  to  act 
on  their  own  responsibility,  for  the  good  of 
their  sex;  but  never  of  thoir  o^vn  free  will 
from  the  very  beginning.  They  have  avoided 
marriage,  not  because  they  thought  it  a  shame 
and  a  surrender,  a  treason  to  their  sex,  a  base 
yielding  to  the  unjust  pretensions  of  men,  but 
because  there  existed  at  the  time  some  obstacle 


i 


1 

i 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


47 


in  their  way  in  the  shape  of  the  vested  interest 
of  some  other  woman.  When  Mary  Godwin 
chose  to  mate  herself  witli  Shelley,  slie  took 
her  good  name  in  her  hands;  but  still  there 
was  Harriet.  As  soon  as  Harriet  was  dead, 
Mary  showed  she  had  no  deej)  principle  of 
action  involved,  by  marrying  Shelley.  When 
George  Eliot  chose  to  pass  her  life  with  Lewes 
on  terms  of  equal  freedom,  she  defied  the  man- 
made  law;  but  still,  there  was  his  wife  to  pre- 
vent the  possibility  of  a  legalized  union.  As 
soon  as  Lewes  was  dead,  George  Eliot  showed 
she  had  no  principle  involved,  by  marrying 
another  man.  Now,  /  have  the  rare  chance  of 
acting  otherwise;  I  can  show  the  world  from 
the  very  first  that  I  act  from  principle,  and 
from  principle  only.  I  can  say  to  it  in  effect, 
*  See,  here  is  the  man  of  my  choice,  the  man 
I  love,  truly,  and  purely,  the  man  any  one  of 
you  would  willingly  have  seen  offering  himself 
in  lawful  marriage  to  your  own  daughters.  If 
I  would,  I  might  go  the  beaten  way  you  pre- 
scribe, and  marry  him  legally.  But  of  my  own 
free  will  I  disdain  that  degradation;  I  choose 
rather  to  be  free.  No  fear  of  your  scorn,  no 
dread  of  your  bigotry,  no  shrinking  at  your 
cruelty,  shall  prevent  me  from  following  the 
thorny  path  I  know  to  be  the  right  one.  I 
seek  no  temporal  end.      I  will  not  prove  false 


48 


THE   WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


i 


to  the  future  of  rny  kind  in  order  to  protect 
myself  from  your  hateful  indignities.  I  know 
on  what  vile  foundations  your  temple  of  wed- 
lock is  based  and  built,  what  pitiable  victims 
languish  and  die  in  its  sickening  vaults;  and  I 
will  not  consent  to  enter  it.      Here,  of  mv  own 


free  will, 


take  my  stand  for  the  right,  and 
refuse  your  sanctions !  No  woman  that  I  know 
of  has  ever  yet  done  that.  Other  women  have 
fallen,  as  men  choose  to  put  it  in  their  odious 
dialect;  no  other  has  voluntarily  risen  as  I  pro- 
pose to  do. '  "  She  paused  a  moment  for  breath. 
"Now  you  know  how  I  feel,"  she  continued, 
looking  straight  into  his  eyes.  "  Say  no  more 
at  present ;  it  is  wisest  so.  But  go  home  and 
think  it  out,  and  talk  it  over  with  me  to- 
morrow." 


TUK  WOMAN  WHO  DID. 


49 


IV. 

i;..AT  night  Alan  slept  little.     Kven  .t  dinner 
h.s  hcstess,  Mrs.  Watcrton,   noticed  Ms  p      '- 

he   retired    early   to    his    own    bedroom       His 

.dcas  of  hers;  how  conld  he  listen  with  a  he- 
com.ns  show  of  interest  to  Kthel  VVaterton', 
asp.rat.ons   on   the   grand   piano  after       g    sy 

oh^t  ir'  ''^'  '■'  '^-•'— hen  in  point 
cover  .r  ""°''   '"''P'''  hlondefrom  the 
cover  of  a  chocolate  bo.x.'     So  he  went  to  bed 
bet.mos,  and  there  lay  ■  ,ng  aw.ake,  <leep  won 
dcnng  to  h.mself  how  to  act  about  il.-rn   niT 

He  was  really  in  love  .vith  her.     Tim  nn,ch 
he  acknow  edged  fnnk-W      m„ 
love  thnn  h.  f     'rankly.     More  protonndly  in 
love  than  he  h.ac!  ever  conceived  it  possible-  he 
could  find  himself  with  any  one.     Jithe    o   1  e 
haaeonsKlered"  this  girl  or  tlKa,n,osU^'^ 
ns  mother  s  or  srster's  recommen.lation ;  and 
after  obsernng  her  critically  for  a  day  or  two 
as  he  m,ght  have  observe,!  .a  horse  or  Ly,Z 
■"tended  purchase,  he  had  come  te  the  L  e 


50 


THE  WOMAN    WHO   DH). 


sion  "she  wouldn't  do,"  and  had  ceased  to 
entertain  iier.  But  with  Herminia,  he  was  in 
love.  The  potent  god  had  come  upon  him. 
That  imperious  inner  monitor  which  cries  aloud 
to  a  man,  "You  must  have  this  girl,  because 
you  can't  do  without  her;  you  must  strive  to 
make  her  happy,  because  her  hapi)iness  is  more 
to  you  now  ten  thousand  fold  than  your  own," 
that  imperious  inner  monitor  had  spoken  out 
at  last  in  no  uncertain  tone  to  Alan  Merrick. 
He  knew  for  the  first  time  what  it  is  to  be  in 
love;  in  love  with  a  true  and  beautiful  woman, 
not  with  his  own  future  convenience  and  com- 
fort. The  keen  fresh  sense  it  quickened  within 
him  raised  him  for  the  moment  some  levels 
above  himself.  For  Herminia's  sake,  he  felt, 
he  could  do  or  dare  anything. 

Nay,  more;  as  Herminia  herself  had  said  to 
him,  it  was  her  better,  her  inner  self  he  was 
in  love  with,  not  the  mere  statuesque  face,  the 
full  and  faultless  figure.  He  saw  how  pure, 
how  pellucid,  how  noble  the  woman  was;  tread- 
ing her  own  ideal  world  of  high  seraphic  har- 
monies. He  was  in  love  with  her  stainless 
soul;  he  could  not  have  loved  her  so  well, 
could  not  have  admired  her  so  profoundly,  had 
she  been  other  than  she  was,  had  she  shared 
the  common  prejudices  and  preconceptions  of 
won^.en.     It  was  just  because  she  was  Herminia 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


51 


that    he    felt    so    irresistibly   attracted    towards 
her.      She  drew  him   like  a  mai;net.      What  he 
loved   and   admired   was   not  so  much   the  fair 
frank    face    itself,    as    the    lofty    Corneliadike 
spirit  behind   it. 

And  yet,  —  he  hesitated. 

Could  he  accept   the  sacrifice  this  white  soul 
wished    to   make   for   iiim?     Could    he  aid    ami 
abet  her  m  raisin;--  up  for  hersell  so  much  unde- 
served oblocpiy?     Could   he  help  her  to  become 
A;m//uy;m  w a ra n<i f /la -.xmoiv^  her  sister  women? 
Iwcn  if  she  felt  brave  enou-h  to  try  the  experi- 
ment  herself  for  humanity's  sake,   was   it   not 
his  duty  as  a  man  to  protect  her  from  her  own 
sublime  and  .generous  impulses.?     Is  it  not  for 
that  in  part  that  nature  makes  us  virile.?     We 
must  shield  the  weaker  vessel.      He  was  flattered 
not   a    little    that    this     leader    amon-   women 
should  have  picked  him  out  for  herself  amon<; 
the  ranks  of  men  as  her  i)redestined  companion 
in    her   chosen   task    of   emancipating;   her   sex. 
And   he  was   thorou-hly  sympathetiJ  (as   every 
good  man   must  needs   ])e)   with    her   aims   and 
her  method.      Yet,    still    he    hesitated.      Never 
before  could   he  have  conceived  such  a  problem 
of  the  soul,  such  a  moral  dilemma  possible.      It 
rent   heart  and  brain  at  once  asunder.      Instinc- 
tively   he   felt    to    himself    he   would    l)e   doin- 
wrong  should  he  try  in  any  way  to  check  these 


52 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DH). 


splendid  and  unselfish  impulses  which  led 
Herminia  to  offer  herself  willingly  up  as  a 
living  sacrifice  on  behalf  of  her  enslaved  sis- 
ters everywhere.  Yet  the  innate  feeling  of 
the  man,  that  't  is  his  place  to  protect  and 
guard  the  woman,  even  from  her  own  higher 
and  purer  self,  intervened  to  distract  him.  He 
couldn't  bear  to  feel  he  might  be  instrumental 
in  bringing  upon  his  pure  Herminia  the  tor- 
tures that  must  be  in  store  for  her;  he  couldn't 
bear  to  think  his  name  might  be  coupled  with 
hers  in  shameful  ways,  too  base  for  any  man  to 
contemplate. 

And  then,  intermixed  with  these  higher 
motives,  came  others  that  he  hardly  liked  to 
confess  to  himself  where  Herminia  was  con- 
cerned, but  which  nevertheless  would  obtrude 
themselves,  will  he,  nill  he,  upon  him.  What 
would  other  people  say  about  such  an  innocent 
union  as  Herminia  contemplated  .'*  Not  indeed, 
"What  effect  would  it  have  upon  his  position 
and  prospects.^"  Alan  Merrick's  place  as  a 
barrister  was  fairly  well  assured;  and  the  Bar 
is  luckily  one  of  the  few  professions  in  lie- 
loving  luigland  where  a  man  need  not  grovel 
at  the  mercy  of  the  moral  judgment  of  the 
mc^anest  and  grossest  among  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, as  is  the  case  with  the  Church,  with 
medicine,    with    the    politician,    and   with    the 


Hi 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


53 


schoolmaster.      But  Alan  could  not  help  think- 
ing all  the  same  how   people   would   misinter- 
pret  and  misunderstand  his  relations  with  the 
woman   he  loved,  if  he   modelled  them  strictly 
upon    Herminia's    wishes.      It    was    hateful,    it 
was    horrible   to    have  to  con    the    thing  over 
where  that  faultless  soul  was  concerned,  in  the 
vile  and  vulgar  terms  other  people  would  apply 
to  It;  but  for   Herminia's  sak'e,  con  it  over  so 
he  must ;  and  though  he  shrank  from  the  effort 
with  a  deadly  shrinking,  he  nevertheless  faced 
It.     Men  at  the  clubs  would  say  he  had  seduced 
Herminia.      Men    at    the    clubs   would    lay   the 
whole  blame  of  the  episode  upon  him;  and  he 
couldn't  bear  to  be  so  blamed  for  the  sake  of 
a    woman,    to    save   whom    from    the    faintest 
shadow  of  disgrace  or  shame  he  would  willingly 
have  died  a  thousand    times  over.      For  since 
Herminia  had  confessed   her  love  to  him  yes- 
terday,  he  had  begun  to  feel  how  much  she  was 
to   him.      His  admiration   and    appreciation    of 
her  had  risen   inexpressibly.      And  was  he  now 
to   be  condemned  for  having  dragged  down   to 
the  dust  that  angel  whose  white  wings  he  felt 
himself  unworthy  to  touch  with  the  hem  of  his 
garment  ? 

And  yet,  once  more,  when  he  respected  her 
so  much  for  the  sacrifice  she  was  willing  to 
make  for  humanity,  would  it  be  right  forliim 


54 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


to  stand  in  her  way,  to  deter  her  from  realizing 
her  own  highest  nature?  She  was  Ilerminia 
just  because  she  lived  in  that  world  cf  high 
hopes,  just  because  she  had  the  courage  and 
the  nobility  to  dare  this  great  thing.  Would 
it  be  right  of  him  to  bring  her  down  from  that 
pedestal  whereon  she  stood  so  austere,  and 
urge  ujion  her  that  she  should  debase  herself 
to  be  as  any  other  woman,  —  even  as  Ethel 
Waterton.'*  For  the  Watertons  had  brought 
him  there  to  propose  to  Ethel. 

For  hours  he  tossed  and  turned  and  revolved 
these  problems.  Rain  beat  on  the  leaded  panes 
of  the  Waterton  dormers.  Day  dawned,  but  no 
light  came  with  it  to  his  troubled  spirit.  The 
more  he  thought  of  this  dilemma,  the  more  pro- 
foundly he  .shrank  from  the  idea  of  allowing 
himself  to  be  made  into  the  instrument  for 
what  the  world  would  call,  after  its  kind,  Iler- 
minia's  shame  and  degradation.  For  even  if 
the  world  could  be  made  to  admit  that  Iler- 
minia had  done  what  she  did  from  chaste  and 
noble  motives, — which  considering  what  we 
all  know  of  the  world,  was  improbable,  —  yet 
at  any  rate  it  could  never  allow  that  he  himself 
had  acted  from  any  but  the  vilest  and  most 
unworthy  reasons.  Base  souls  would  see  in 
the  sacrifice  he  made  to  Herminia's  ideals,  only 
the   common  stor^  of  a  trustful  woman  cruelly 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


55 


betrayed  by  the  man  who  pretended  to  love 
her,  and  would  proceed  to  treat  him  with  the 
coldness  and  contempt  with  which  such  a  man 
deserves  to  be  treated. 

As  the   mornin^r  wore  on,   this  view  of  the 
matter  obtruded   itself  more  and  more  forcibly 
every  moment  on  Alan.      Over  and  over  a-ain 
he  said  to  himself,  let  come  what  come  mi-ht 
he  must  never  aid  and  abet  that   innocent  soul 
in   rushing    blindfold    over  a   cliff    to    her  own 
destruction.      It    is    so   easy  at    twenty-two    to 
rum  yourself  for    life;  so  difficult   at   thirty  to 
chmb  slowly  back  again.      No,  no,  holy  as  Her- 
mmia's  impulses  were,  he   must  save  'her  from 
herself;  he  must  save  her  from  her  own  purity 
he  must  refuse  to  be  led  astray  by  her  romantic 
aspirations.      He  must   keep  her  to  the  beaten 
path  trod  by  all  petty  souls,  and   preserve  her 
from  the  painful  crown  of  martyrdom  she  her- 
self designed  as  her  eternal  diadem. 

Full  of  these  manful  resolutions,  he  rose  up 
early  in  the  morning.  He  would  be  his  Her- 
niinia's  guardian  angel.  He  would  use  her 
love  for  him,  -  for  he  knew  she  loved  him,  — 
as  a  lever  to  v<;g  her  aside  from  these  slippery 
moral  precijiices. 

He  mistook  the  solid  rock  of  ethical  resolu- 
tion  he  was  trying  to  disturb  with  so  frail  an 


en;;- inc. 


The    fulcrum    itself    would    yield    far 


I 


56 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


sooner  to  the  pressure  than  the  weight  of  Her- 
minia's  uncompromising  rectitude.  Passionate 
as  she  was,  —  and  with  that  opulent  form  she 
could  hardly  be  otherwise,  —principle  was  still 
deeper  and  more  imperious  with  her  than 
passion. 


'i 


r- 
:c 
e 
11 
n 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


57 


V. 


He  met  her  by  appointment  on  the  first  ridge 
of  Jiore  Hill.  A  sunny  summer  morning  smiled 
fresh  after  therain.  Jiumble-bees  bustled  busily 
about  the  closed  lips  of  the  red-rattle,  and  ripe 
gorse  pods  burst  with  little  elastic  explosions 
in  the  basking  sunlight. 

When  Alan  reached  the  trysting-place,  under 
a  broad-armed  oak,  in  a  glade  of  the  woodland 
Herminia  was  there  before  him;  a  good  woman 
always  is,  'tis  the  prerogative  of  her  affection 
She   was    simply    dressed    in    her  dainty  print 
gown,    a   single    tea-rosebud    peeped    out    from 
her  bodice;  she  looked  more  lily-like,  so  Alan 
thought    in    his    heart,    than    he   had   ever   yet 
seen  her.     She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with 
parted  lips  and  a  conscious  blush.     Alan  took 
It,  but  bent  forward  at  the  same  time,  and  with 
a  hasty   glance  around,  just   touched    her   rich 
mouth.       Herminia     allowed     him    without     a 
struggle;  she  was  too  stately  of    mien   ever  to 
grant  a  favor  without  granting  it  of  pure  grace, 
and  with  queenly  munificence. 


S8 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


/  ■ 


Alan  led  her  to  a  grassy  bank  where  thyme 
and  basil  ^rew  matted,  and  the  hum  of  myriad 
win^s  stirred  the  sultry  air;  Ilerminia  let  him 
lead  her.  She  was  woman  enou[;h  by  nature  to 
like  being  led;  oniy,  it  must  be  the  right  man 
who  led  her,  and  he  must  lead  her  along  the 
path  that  her  conscience  a}>])r()ved  of.  Alan 
seated  himself  by  her  side,  and  took  her  hand 
in  his;  Herminia  let  him  hold  it.  This  love- 
making  was  pure  honey.  Dappled  spots  of 
light  and  shade  flecked  the  ground  beneath 
the  trees  like  a  jaguar's  skin.  Wood-pigeons 
crooned,  unseen,  from  the  leafy  covert.  She 
sat  there  long  without  uttering  a  word.  Once 
Alan  essayed  to  speak,  but  Ilerminia  cut  him 
short.  "Oh,  no,  not  yet,"  she  cried  half  petu- 
lantly; "this  silence  is  so  delicious.  I  love 
best  just  to  sit  and  hold  your  hand  like  this. 
Why  spoil   it  with   language.''" 

So  they  sat  for  some  minutes,  Ilerminia  with 
her  eyes  half  closed,  drinking  in  to  the  full  the 
delight  of  first  love.  She  could  feel  her  heart 
beating.  At  last  Alan  interposed,  and  began 
to  speak  to  her.  The  girl  drew  a  long  breath; 
then  she  sighed  for  a  second,  as  she  opened  her 
eyes  again.  lu'ery  curve  of  her  bosom  heavca 
and  swayed  mysteriously.  It  seemed  such  a 
pity  to  let  articulate  words  disturb  that  reverie. 
Still,     if     Alan    wished     it.     For  a  woman    is 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DH). 


59 


a  woman,  let  Girton  do  its  worst;  and  Ilcr- 
niinia  not  less  but  rather  more  than  the  rest 
of  them. 

^    Then  Alan   began.      With   her  hand   clasped 
in  his,  and  fondling  it  while  he  spoke,  he  urged 
all  he  could  urge  to  turn  her  from  her  purpo^se 
He  pointed  out  to   her  how  unwise,   how   irre- 
trievable    her    position   would    be,    if   she   once 
assumed  it.     On  such  a  road  as  that  there  is  no 
turning  back.     The  die  once  cast,  she  must  for- 
ever abide  by  it.      He  used  all  arts  to  persuade 
and   dissuade;  all  eloquence  to  save  her  from 
herself  and  her  salvation.     If  he  loved  her  less 
he  said  with  truth,  he  might  have  spoken  less 
earnestly.      It  was  for  her  own  sake  he  spoke 
because  he  so  loved  her.     He  waxed  hot  in  his 
eager  desire    to   prevent   her  from  taking   this 
fatal    step.      He    drew    his    breath    hard,    and 
paused.      Emotion    and    anxiety  overcame    him 
visibly. 

But   as   for    Herminia,    though    she    listened 
with  affection  and  with  a  faint  tlirill  of  pleasure 
to   much   that    he   said,    seeing   how  deeply   he 
loved  her,  she  leaned  back  from  time  to  time 
half  weary  with   his   eagerness,   and  his  conse' 
qucnt  iteration.      "  Dear  Alan,"  she  said  at  last 
soothing    his   hand    with    her  own,    as   a   sister 
might  have  .soothed  it,  "you  talk  about  all  this 
as   though    it   were   to    me    some    new   resolve, 


K1 


60 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


m 


\\ 


W 


some  new  idea  of  my  making.  You  forget  it 
is  the  outcome  of  my  life's  philosophy.  I 
have  grown  up  to  it  slowly.  I  have  thought 
of  all  this,  and  of  hardly  anything  else,  ever 
since  I  was  old  enough  to  think  for  myself 
about  anything.  Root  and  branch,  it  is  to  me 
a  foregone  conclusion.  I  love  you.  You  love 
me.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  there  ends  the 
question.      One   way    there    is,    and 


one 


way 

alone,  in  which  I  can  give  myself  up  to  you. 
Make  me  yours  if  you  will;  but  if  not,  then 
leave  me.  Only,  remember,  by  leaving  me, 
you  won't  any  the  more  turn  me  aside  from 
my  purpose.  You  won't  save  me  from  myself, 
as  you  call  it;  you  will  only  hand  me  over  to 
some  one  less  fit  for  me  by  far  than  you  are." 
A  quiet  moisture  glistened  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  gazed  at  him  pensively.  "  How  wonderful 
it  is,"  she  went  on,  musing.  "Three  weeks 
ago,  I  didn't  know  t*;ire  was  such  a  man  in 
the  world  at  all  as  you;  and  now  —  why,  Alan, 
I  feel  as  if  the  world  would  be  nothing  to  me 
without  you.  Your  name  seems  to  sing  in  my 
cars  all  day  long  with  the  song  of  the  birds, 
and  to  thrill  through  and  through  me  as  I  lie 
awake  on  my  pillow  with  the  cry  of  the  night- 
jar. Yet,  if  you  won't  take  me  on  my  own 
terms,  I  know  well  what  will  happen.  I  shall 
go  away,  and  grieve  over  you,  of  course,  and 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


6l 


feci  bereaved  for  months,   as   if   I   could   never 
possibly  ai;ain    love  any  man.      At    present    it 
seems    to    mc    I    never   could    love    him.     JUit 
though  my  heart  tells  me  that,  my  reason  tells 
me  I  should  some  day  find  some  other  soul   I 
might   perhaps  fall    back   upon.      But    it  would 
only  be  falling  back.      For  the  sake  of  my  prin- 
ciples alone,  and  of  the  example   I  wish  to  set 
the    world,    could    I    ever   fall    back    upon    any 
other.     Yet  fall  back  I  would.     And  what  good 
would  you  have  done  me  then  by  refusing ''me .? 
You  would   merely  have  cast    me  off  from  the 
man  I  love  best,  the  man  who  I  know  by  immc- 
diate  instinct,  which  is  the  voice  of  nature  and 
of  God  within  us,   was  intended  from  all  time 
for  me.     The  moment  I  saw  you  my  heart  beat 
quicker;  my  heart's  evidence  told  me  you  were 
the  one  love  meant  for  me.      Why  force  me  to 
decline  upon  some  other  less  meet  for  me.?  " 

Alan  gazed  at  her,  irresolute.  "But  if  you 
love  me  so  much,"  he  said,  "surely,  surely,  it 
is  a  small  thing  to  trust  your  future  to  me." 

The  tenderness  of  woman  let  her  hand  glide 
over  his  cheek.  She  was  not  ashamed  of  her 
love.  "O  Alan,"  she  cried,  "if  it  were  only 
for  myself,  I  could  trust  you  with  my  life;  I 
could  trust  you  with  anything.  lUit  I  haven't 
only  myself  to  think  of.  I  have  to  think  of 
right  and  wrong;  I  have  to  think  of  the  world- 


■^, 


62 


TIIF    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


I  have  to  think  of  the  cause  which  almost 
wholly  han(;s  upon  me.  Not  for  nothin^^  arc 
these  impulses  im})lante(l  in  my  breast.  They 
are  tlie  voice  of  tiie  soul  of  all  women  within 
me.  If  I  were  to  neglect  them  for  the  sake  of 
gratifying  your  wishes,  —  if  I  were  to  turn 
traitor  to  my  sex  for  the  sake  of  the  man  I 
love,  as  so  many  women  have  turned  before  me, 
I  should  hate  and  despise  myself.  I  could  n't 
love  you,  Alan,  quite  S(j  much,  loved  I  not 
honor  more,  and  the  battle  imposed  upon  me." 

Alan  wavered  as  she  si)oke.  He  felt  what 
she  said  was  true;  even  if  he  refused  to  tak(i 
her  on  the  only  terms  she  could  accept,  he 
would  not  thereby  save  her.  She  would  turn 
in  time  and  liestow  herself  upon  some  man 
who  would  perhaps  be  less  worthy  of  her,  — 
nay  even  on  some  man  who  might  forsake  her 
in  the  secpiel  witii  unspeakable  treachery.  Of 
conduct  like  that,  Alan  knew  himselt  incapable. 
He  knew  that  if  he'  took  Ilerminia  onc(i  to  his 
heart,  he  would  treat  her  with  such  tenderness, 
such  constancy,  such  devotion  as  never  yet  was 
shown  to  living  woman.  (Love  always  thinks 
so.)  Hut  still,  he  shrank  frcm  the  idea  of  being 
himself  the  man  to  take  advantage  of  her; 
for  so  in  his  unregenerate  mind  he  phrased  to 
himself  their  union.  And  still  he  temporized. 
**  Even   so,    Herminia, "   he   cried,    bending   for- 


i 


THE    WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


^>l 


ward  and  gazing  hard  at  her,  "  I  could  n't  endure 
to  have  It  said  it  was  I  who  misled  you." 

licrminia  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  with  just  a 
tinge  of  lofty  scorn,  tempered  only  ])y  the 
womanliness  of  those  melting  lashes  "And 
you  can  think  of  /W/"  she  murmured,  gazin- 
across  at  him  half  in  tears.  "Q  Alan,  for  my 
part  I  can  think  of  n  )thing  now  but  the  truths 
of  life  and  the  magnitude  of  the  issues.  Our 
hearts  against  the  world,-  love  and  duty  against 
convention." 

Then   Alan   began  again    and    talked   all    he 
knew.      He  urged,  he  i)rayed,  he  bent  forward 
he  spoke  soft  and   low,    he  played  on   her   ten- 
derest   chords    as   a   loving   woman.      Merminia 
was  moved,    for   her   heart  went   forth    to   liim 
and  she  knew  why  he  tried  so  hard  to  save  her 
from    her  own   higher    and    truer   nature.      Jiut 
she  never  yielded  an   inch.      She  stood   firm  to 
her   colors.      She    shook   her   head    to   the    last 
and   mur-nured  over  and  over  again,  "There  is 
only  one  right  way,  and  no  persuasion  on  earth 
will  ever  avail  to  turn  me  aside  from   it  " 

The  Truth  hud  made  her  iM'ee,  and  she  was 
very  confident  of   it. 

At  last,  all  fKher  means  failing,  Alan  fell 
hack  on  the  final  resort  of  delay.  He  saw 
much  merit  in  pro(  fascination.  There  was  no 
hurry,    he   said.      They  /.H^'ed  n't  make    uj)  their 


I 


64 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


minds,  one  w.iy  or  the  other,  immediately. 
They  could  take  their  time  lo  think.  Perhaps, 
with  a  week  or  two  to  decide  in,  Herminia 
might  persuade  him;  or  he  might  persuade  her. 
Why  rush  on  fate  so  suddenly? 

But  at  that,  to  his  immense  surprise,  Her- 
minia demurred.  "No,  no,"  she  saitl,  shaking 
her  head,  "thar's  not  at  all  what  I  want.  W'e 
must  decide  to-day  one  way  or  the  other.  Now 
is  the  accepted  time;  now  is  the  day  of  salva- 
tion. I  couldn't  let  you  wait,  and  slip  by  de- 
grees into  some  vague  arrangement  we  hardly 
contemplated  definitely.  To  do  that  would  be 
to  sin  against  my  ideas  of  decorum.  Whatever 
we  do  we  must  do,  as  the  apostle  says,  decently 
and  in  order,  wiih  a  full  sense  of  the  obliga- 
tions it  imposes  apon  us.  We  must  say  to  one 
another  in  so  many  words,  *I  am  yours;  you 
are  mine;'  or  we  must  part  forever.  I  have 
U)'u\  you  my  whole  soul;  I  have  bared  my  heart 
before  you.  Y(ju  may  take  it  or  leave  it;  but 
for  my  dignity's  sake,  I  put  it  to  you  now, 
choose  one  way  or  the  other." 

Alan  looked  at  her  hard.  Her  face  was  crim- 
son by  this  with  maidenly  shame;  but  she  made 
no  effort  to  hide  or  avert  it.  l^'or  the  good  of 
humanity,  this  question  must  be  settled  once 
for  all;  and  no  womanish  reserve  should  make 
her  shrink  from  settling  it.      Happier  maidens 


i 


THE  WOMAN'  wiro  nin. 


65 


in  ap^es  to  come,  when  society  had  reconstructed 
itself  on  the  broad  basis  of  freedom,  would  never 
have  to  go  throuL;h  what  she  was  goini;  throui^h 
that  moment.  They  would  be  spared  the  fiuiv- 
ering  shnme,  the  tin^lin*^  reijjret,  the  strui^^le 
with  which  she  braced  up  her  maiden  modesty 
to  that  supreme  effort.  Ikit  she  would  <^^o 
^'  rou<^di  with  it  all  the  same.  For  eternal 
woman's  sake  she  had  lonj;  contemplated  that 
day ;  now  it  iiad  come  at  last,  she  would  not 
weakly  draw  back  from   it. 

Alan's  eyes  were  all  admiration.  lie  stood 
near  emugh  to  her  level  to  understand  her  to 
the  core.  **  Ilerminia,"  he  cried,  bending  over 
her,  '*you  drive  me  to  bay.  You  p>ress  me  very 
hard.  I  feel  myself  yielding.  I  am  a  man; 
and  when  you  speak  to  me  like  that,  I  know  it. 
You  enlist  on  your  side  all  that  is  virile  witiiin 
me.  Yet  how  can  I  accept  the  terms  you  offer  .^ 
1^'or  the  very  love  I  bear  you,  how  do  you  this 
injustice.  If  I  loved  y^u  less,  I  might  per- 
haps say  yts;  because  I  love  you  so  well,  I  feel 
compelled  to  say  fio  to  you." 

Herminia  looked  at  him  hard  in  return.  Her 
cheeks  were  glowing  now  with  something  like 
the  shame  of  the  woman  who  feels  her  love  is 
lightly  rejected.  "Is  that  final  .^"  she  asked, 
drawing  herself  u[>  as  she  sat.  and  facing  him 
oro'i  W. 


I 


66 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DH). 


**  No,  no,  it's  not  final,"  Alan  answered,  feel- 
ing the  woman's  inrtuence  course  through  body 


an 


d   bl 


0(J(J 


to  1 


lis  ciuiverin; 


fi 


nger-tii)S. 


M 


iL:i- 


cal  touches  stirred  hi 


m. 


How  can  it  be  final, 


Herminia,  when  you  look  at  me  like  that? 
Mow  can  it  be  final,  when  you  're  so  gracious, 
so  graceful,  so  beautiful?  Oh,  my  child,  I  am 
a  man;  don't  play  too  hard  on  those  fiercest 
chords   in   my  nature." 

Herminia  gazed  at  him  fixedly;  the  dimi)les 
disaj)peared.  Her  voice  was  more  serious  now, 
and  had  nothing  in  it  of  pleading.  "It  isn't 
like  that  thai  I  want  to  draw  you,  i\lan,"  she 
answered  gravely.  **  It  isn't  those  chords  I 
want  to  play  upon.  I  want  to  convince  your 
brain,  your  intellect,  your  reason.  You  agree 
with  me  in  principle.  Why  then,  should  you 
wish  to  draw  back  in  practice?" 

"Yes,  I  agree  with  you  in  principle,"  Alan 
answered.  "It  isn't  tiiore  that  I  hesitate. 
K\en  before  I  met  you,  I  had  arrived  at  pretty 
much  the  same  ideas  mys  If,  as  a  matter  of 
abstract  reasoning.  I  saw  that  the  one  way  of 
freedcMTi  for  the  woman  is  to  cast  off,  root  and 
liranch,  the  evil  growth  of  man's  supremacy. 
I  snw  that  the  honor  il)leness  of  marriage,  the 
di.-^grace  of  free  union,  were  just  so  many 
ignoble  masculine  devices  to  keep  up  man's 
lordship;   vile   results   of   his   determination   to 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    Km. 


67 


aboo    to    himself    l.cfor.I.and    and    n,onopoli,o 
for    I.fo    some    particular  woman.      I    know   all 
that;  I  acknowlalgc  all  that.      I  sec  as  plainly 
-s  yon  do  that  sooner  or  later  there  must  come 
a  revolution.      Jiut,   llenninia,  the  women   who 
devote  themselves  to  earryin^  out  that  revolu- 
t.nn,  will  take  their  .souls   in   their  hand.s,  and 
will   march   in   line  to  the  freein-  of  iheir  se.x 
ll'rou.^di     shame    and    calumny     and     hardships 
innumerable.      I   shrink    fr.un    lettim,^  you     the 
woman  that   I   love,  brin^  that   fate  upon  your- 
sell;   I  shrink  still   more  from  beinj;  the  man  to 
aid  and  abet  you  in  doini;  it." 

Herminia   fi.ved   l,er  piercing  eyes   upon    his 
face   once   more.     Tears    stood    in   them    now. 
ihe  tenderness  of  woman  was  awakened  within 
her.     "Dear  Alan,"  she  said  gently,   "don't  I 
tell  you  I  have  thou-ht   long  since  .,f  all  that' 
1  am  /,•</,«•, v/  to  face  it.      It  is  only  a  question 
of  with  whom  I  shall  do  so.     Shall   it  he  with 
the   man    I    have   instinctively   loved   from    the 
first  moment   I  saw  h,m,  better  than  all  others 
on  earth,   or  shall   it  be  with  some  lesser'     If 
my  h«trt   is  willing,   why  should  yours  demur 

to    It  ? 

"Because  I  love  you  too  well."  Alan  answered 
don^nrcd  ly. 

Herminia   rose   and    laced    hini.      Her   hands 
dropped  by  her  side.      She  was  sidendid   wiien 


68 


THE  WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


she  stood  so  with  her  panting  bosom.  "Then 
you  decide  to  say  good-bye?  "  she  cried,  with  a 
lingering  cadence. 

Alan  seized  her  by  both  wrists,  and  drew 
her  down  to  his  side.  "No,  no,  darling,"  he 
answered  low,  laying  his  lips  against  hers.  "  I 
can  never  say  good-bye.  Vou  have  confessed 
you  love  me.  When  a  woman  says  that,  what 
can  a  man  refuse  her.^  From  such  a  woman 
as  you,  I  am  so  proud,  so  proud,  so  j^roud  of 
such  a  confession ;  how  could  I  ever  cease  to 
feel  you  were  mine, —  mine,  mine,  wholly  mine 
for  a  lifetime.^  " 

"Then  you  consent.-*"  Ilerminia  cried,  all 
aglow,   half  nestling  to  his  bosom. 

"I  consent,"  Alan  answered,  with  profound 
misgivings.  "  What  else  do  you  leave  open  to 
me.?" 

Ilerminia  made  no  direct  answer;  she  only 
laid  her  head  with  ])erfect  trust  upon  the  man's 
broad  shoulder.  "O  Alan,"  she  murmured 
low,  letting  her  heart  have  its  way,  "you  are 
mine,  then;  you  are  mine.  You  have  made 
me  so  happy,  so  supremely  happy." 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


69 


vr. 

Trius,  half  nffainst  his  will,  Man  Merrick  u-as 
drawn  into  this  irregular  compact 

Next  came  that  more  ditfici.lt  n.atter,  the  dis- 
cuss.on  of  ways  an,!  means,  the  more  practical 
details.  Alan  hardly  knew  at  first  on  what  pre- 
c.so  terms  it  was  Herminia's  wisl,  tl,at  they 
two  shonld  pass  their  lives  together.  His  ideas 
were  all  naturally  framed  on  the  old  model  of 
■carnage;    in  that  matter,    Ilerminia    .said     he 

wasstUl,nthegallofhitternes.s,andthe;od 
of   u,K,u,ty.     He  took    it    for   granted   that   o 

cour.se  they  must  dwell    under   one   roof  with 

one  another.     Hut  that  simple  ancestral  notion, 

derived     rom  man's  lord,ship  in  his  own  house- 
was  wholly  adverse  to  Herminia's  views  of  th^ 
rea.sonahle  and  natural.     She  had  debated  these 
problems  at  full  ,n  her  own  mind  for  years    npd 
had  arrived  at  definite  and  consistent  soluii^ns 
0     every  knotty  point   in   them.      Why  shouUl 
h.s    friendship   differ   at    all,    she    asked,    i„ 
respect    of    tinie   a„.l    place,    from    any   other 
friendship.?     .ne  notion  of  necessarily  keeping 


70 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


Hi 


h(nise  together,  the  cranij)ing  idea  of  the  family 
tic,  beUjnged  entirely  to  the  rL^givic  of  the  man- 
made  patriarchate,  where  the  woman  and  the 
children  were  the  slaves  and  chattels  of  the 
lord  and  master.  In  a  free  society,  was  it  not 
obvious  that  each  woman  would  live  her  own 
life  apart,  would  preserve  her  independence, 
and  would  receive  the  visits  of  the  man  for 
whom  she  cared, — the  father  of  her  children? 
Then  only  could  she  be  free.  Any  other 
method  meant  the  economic  and  social  superi- 
ority of  the  man,  and  was  irreconcilable  with 
the  perfect   indivi(kiality  of  the  woman. 

So  Herminia  reasoned.  She  rejected  at  once, 
therefore,  the  idea  of  any  change  in  her  exist- 
ing mode  of  life.  T(^  her,  the  friendship  she 
proposed  with  Alan  Merrick  was  no  social  rev- 
olution; it  was  but  the  due  fulfilment  of  her 
natural  functions.  To  make  of  it  an  occasion 
for  ostentat'ous  change  in  her  way  of  living 
seemed  to  her  as  unnatural  as  is  the  practice 
of  the  barbarians  in  our  midst  who  use  a  wed- 
ding—  that  most  sacred  and  private  event  in  a 
young  girl's  life  —  as  an  opportunity  for  display 
of  the  coarsest  and  crudest  character.  To  rivet 
the  attention  of  friends  on  bride  and  bride- 
groom is  to  offend  against  the  most  delicate 
susceptibilities  of  modesty.  From  nil  such 
hateful    practices,    Herminia's    pure    mind    re- 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DH). 


71 


volted  by  instinct.  She  felt  that  here  at  least 
was  the  one  moment  in  a  woman's  history  when 
she  would  shrink  with  timitl  reserve  from  every 
eye  save  one  man's,  —  when  publieity  of  any 
sort  was  most  odious  and  horrible. 

Only  the  blinding  effect  of  custom,  indeed, 
could  ever  have  shut  good  women's  eyes  to  the 
shameful  indecorousness  of  wetlding  ceremonial. 
We  drag  a  young  girl    before  the    pryiui 


of  all  the  world  at  the  very  crisis  in  her  life, 
when  natural  modesty  would  most  lead  her  to 
conceal  herself  from  her  dearest  acquaintance. 
And  our  women  themselves  have  grown  so 
blunted  by  use  to  the  hatefulness  of  the  ordeal 
that  many  of  them  face  it  now  with  inhuman 
effrontery.  Familiarity  with  inci.riage  has  al- 
most killed  out  in  the  maidens  of  our  race  the 
last  lingering  relics  of  native  modesty. 

Herminia,  however,  could  dispense  with  all 
that  show.  She  had  a  little  c(>ttage  of  her 
own,  she  told  Alan,  — a  t'ny  little  cottage,  in 
a  street  near  her  school-work ;  she  rented  it 
for  a  small  sum,  in  (juite  a  poor  (piarter,  all 
inhabited  by  work-people.  There  she  lived  by 
herself;  for  she  ke{)t  no  servants.  There  she 
should  continue  to  live;  why  need  this  purely 
personal  com[>act  between  them  two  make  any 
difference  in  her  daily  habit;;  .^  She  would  go 
on    with    her    school-work  for    the    present,    as 


I! 
1 


73 


Tin-:  WOMAN  WHO  did. 


usual.  Oh,  no,  she  certainly  did  n't  intend  to 
notify  the  head-mistress  of  the  school  or  any 
one  else,  (;f  her  altered  position.  It  was  no 
alteration  of  position  at  all,  so  far  as  she  was 
concerned;  merely  the  addition  to  life  of  a 
new  and  very  dear  and  natural  friendship. 
Herminia  took  her  own  point  of  view  so  in- 
stinctively indeed,  —  lived  so  wrapped  in  an 
ideal  world  of  her  own  and  the  future's,  — that 
Alan  was  often  quite  alarmed  in  his  soul  when 
he  thought  of  the  rude  awakening  that  no  douht 
awaited  her.  Yet  whenever  he  hinted  it  to  her 
with  all  possible  delicacy,  she  seemed  so  per- 
fectly prepared  for  the  orst  the  world  could 
do,  so  fixed  and  resolved  in  her  intention  of 
martyrdom,  that  he  had  no  argument  left,  and 
could  only  sigh  over  her. 

It  was  not,  she  explained  to  him  further,  that 
she  wished  to  conceal  anything.  The  least 
tinge  of  concealment  was  wholly  alien  to  that 
frank  fresh  nature.  If  he'r  head-mistress  asked 
her  a  point-blank  question,  she  woukl  not 
attempt  to  parry  it,  but  would  reply  at  once 
with  a  point  blank  answer.  Still,  her  \ery 
views  on  the  subject  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  volunteer  information  unasked  to  any 
one.  Here  was  a  personal  matter  of  the  utmost 
privacy;  a  matter  which  concerned  nobody  on 
earth,  save  herself  and  Alan;  a  matter  on  which 


TIIK    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


73 


it  vvns  the  fjrosscst  impertinence  for  any  one 
else  to  make  any  incjuiry  or  hokl  any  oi)inion. 
They  two  chose  to  be  friends;  ami  there,  so 
far  as  the  rest  of  tlie  world  was  concerned,  the 
whole  thini;  ended.  What  else  took  place 
between  them  was  wholly  a  subject  for  their 
own  consideration.  lUit  if  ever  circumstances 
sliould  arise  whicli  made  it  necessary  for  her  to 
avow  to  tlu'  world  that  slie  must  soon  he  a 
mother,  then  it  was  for  the  woi  Id  to  take  the 
first  step,  if  it  wmild  act  u[)on  its  own  hateful 
and  cruel  initiative.  She  wouUl  never  deny, 
but  she  would  never  j^o  out  of  her  way  to  confess. 
She  stood  upon  her  individuality  as  a  human  bcini;. 
As  to  other  practical  matters,  about  which 
Alan  ventured  delicately  to  throw  out  a  pass- 
ing question  or  two,  Ilerminia  was  perfectly 
frank,  with  the  perfect  frankness  of  one  who 
thinks  and  does  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 
She  had  always  been  self-supporting,  she  said, 
and  she  would  be  self-supporting  still.  To  her 
mind,  that  was  an  essential  step  towards  the 
emancipation  of  women.  Their  friendship  im- 
plied for  her  no  change  of  existence,  merely  an 
addition  to  the  fulness  of  her  living.  He  was 
the  complement  of  her  being.  Iwery  woman 
should  naturally  wish  to  live  her  whole  life,  to 
fulfil  her  whole  functions;  and  that  she  could  do 
only  by  becoming  a  mother,  accepting  the  orbit 


74 


THE   WOMAN    WIID    DFD. 


for  which  nature  desi^nicd  her.  In  the  end,  no 
doubt,  c()nii)lete  independence  would  be  secured 
for  each  woman  l)y  the  civil izetl  state,  or  in 
other  words  by  the  whole  body  of  men,  who  do 
the  hard  work  of  the  woi  Id,  and  who  would  col- 
lectively g'larantee  every  necessary  and  luxury 
to  every  wonian  of  the  community  equally.  In 
that  way  alone  could  perfect  liberty  of  choice 
and  action  be  secured  for  women;  and  she  held 
it  just  that  women  should  so  be  provided  for, 
because  the  mothers  of  the  community  fulfil  in 
the  state  as  important  and  necessary  a  function 
as  the  men  themselves  do.  It  woukl  be  well, 
too,  that  the  mothers  should  be  free  to  perform 
that  function  without  ])reoccu]iation  of  any  sort. 
So  a  free  world  would  order  thim;s.  l>ut  in 
our  present  barbaric  state  of  industrial  slavery, 
ca])italism,  monopoly,  —  in  other  words  under 
the  ori^anized  rule  of  selfishness, — such  a 
course  was  impossible.  Perhaps,  as  an  inter- 
mediate condition,  it  miL;ht  hajipen  in  time 
that  the  women  of  certain  classes  would  for  the 
most  part  be  made  independent  at  maturity 
each  by  h<.'r  own  father;  which  would  produce 
for  them  in  the  end  prettv  much  the  same  i;'en- 
eral  effect  of  freedom.  She  saw  as  a  first  step 
the  endowment  of  the  (lau,L;hter.  J5ut  mean- 
while there  was  nothiiiL;  for  it  save  that  as 
many   women    as  could   should   aim   for    them- 


TIIF.   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


75 


selves  at  economic  liberty,  in  other  words  at 
sclf-su[)purt.  That  was  an  evil  in  itself,  because 
obviously  the  prospective  mothers  of  a  com- 
munity should  be  relieved  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  stress  and  strain  of  earning  a  liveli- 
hood; should  be  set  free  to  build  up  their 
nervous  systems  to  the  highest  attainable  level 
against  the  calls  of  maternity.  15ut  above  all 
things  we  must  be  practical;  and  in  the  prac- 
tical world  here  and  now  around  us,  no  other 
way  existed  for  women  to  be  free  save  the 
wasteful  way  of  each  earning  her  own  liveli- 
hood. Therefore  she  would  continue  her  school- 
work  with  her  pupils  as  long  as  the  school 
would  allow  her;  and  when  that  became  impos- 
sible, wouUl  fall  back  upon  literature. 

One  other  question  Alan  ventured  gently  to 
raise, —  the  question  of  children.  Fools  always 
put  that  cpiestion,  and  think  it  a  crushing  one. 
Alan  was  no  fool,  yet  it  puzzled  him  strangely. 
He  did  not  see  for  himself  how  easy  is  the  so- 
lution; how  absolutely  Ilerminia's  plan  leaves 
the  position  unaltered.  \h\t  Ilerminia  herself 
was  as  modestly  frank  on  the  subject  as  on 
every  other.  It  was  a  moral  and  social  point 
of  the  deepest  importance;  and  it  would  be 
wrong  of  them  to  rush  into  it  without  due  con- 
sideration. She  had  duly  considered  it.  She 
would  give  her  chiKlren,  should  any  come,  the 
unique    and    glorious    birthright    of    being    the 


m 


76 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DH). 


only  human  beini^^s  ever  born  into  this  world 
as  the  deliberate  result  of  a  free  union,  con- 
tracted on  i)hilosoi)hical  and  ethical  principles. 
Alan  hinted  certain  doubts  as  to  their  up-bring- 
ing an.l  education.  There,  too,  llerminia  was 
perfectly  frank.  They  would  be  half  hers,  half 
his;  the  pleasant  burden  of  their  sui)imrt,  the 
joy  of  their  education,  woul  1  naturally  fall  ujion 
both  parents  equally,  liut  why  discuss  these 
matters  like  the  squalid  rich,  who  make  their 
marriages  a  question  of  settlements  and  dow- 
ries and  business  arrangements.^  They  two 
were  friends  and  lovers;  in  love,  such  base 
doubts  could  never  arise.  Not  for  worlds 
would  she  import  into  their  mutual  relations 
any  sordid  stain  of  money,  any  vile  tinge  of 
bargaining.  They  could  trust  one  another: 
that  alone  sufficed  for  them. 

So  Alan  gave  way  bit  by  bit  all  along  the 
line,  overborne  by  Herminia's  more  perfect 
and  logical  conception  of  her  own  j-)rincii)les. 
She  knew  exactly  what  she  felt  and  wanted; 
while  he  knew  only  in  a  vague  and  formless 
way  that  his  reason  agreed  with   her. 

A  week  later,  he  knocked  timidly  one  evening 
at  the  door  of  a  modest  little  workman-looking 
cottage,  down  a  small  side  street  in  the  back- 
wastes  of  Chelsea.  'Twas  a  most  uni->retending 
street ;  l?ower  Lane  by  name,  full  of  brown 
brick    iiouses,    all   as    like   as   peas,    and    with 


THE    WOMAN'   WHO    DID. 


11 


nothinj;  of  any  sort  to  redeem  tlieir  plain  (rr)nts 
from  tlie  common  blii;lit  of  llie  London  jerry- 
builder.  Only  a  soft  serge  curtain  and  a  pot  of 
mi.i;nonette  on  the  led^ge  of  the  window,  dis- 
tiuL^uished  the  cotta;;e  at  which  Alan  Merrick 
knocked  from  the  others  beside  it.  IC.xternally 
that  is  to  say;  for  within  it  was  as  dainty  as 
Morris  wall-jxipers  an  1  merino  hani^in^s  and 
a  delicate  feminine  taste  in  form  and  color 
could  make  it.  Keats  and  Shelley  lined  the 
shelves;  Rossetti's  wan  maidens  gazetl  un- 
earthly from  the  over-niantel.  The  door  was 
opened  for  him  by  Ilerminia  in  person;  for  she 
kept  no  servant, — that  was  one  of  her  prin- 
ciples. Sh :  was  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in 
a  simple  white  gown,  as  pure  and  sweet  as  the 
soul  it  covered.  A  white  rose  nestled  in  her 
glossy  hair;  three  sprays  of  widto  lily  decked 
a  vase  on  the  mantel-piece.  Some  dim  sur- 
vival of  ancestral  ideas  made  Ilerminia  l^narton 
so  array  herself  in  the  white  garb  of  affiance 
for  her  bridal  evening.  Her  clieek  was  aglow 
with  virginal  shrinking  as  she  opened  the  door, 
and  welcomed  Alan  in.  But  she  held  out  her 
hand  just  as  frankly  as  ever  to  the  man  of  her 
free  choice  as  he  advancerl  to  greet  her.  /Man 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  forehead 
tenderly.  An^l  thus  was  Ilerminia  Harton's 
espousal  consummated. 


78 


TIIF.    WO.MAiN    Wild    1>I|J. 


VII. 


if 


The  next  six  months  were  the  happiest  time  ot 
her  life,  for  Ilerminia.  All  day  lon^;-  she  worked 
hard  with  her  classes;  and  often  in  the  even- 
ings Alan  Merrick  dropped  in  for  sweet  con- 
verse and  companionship.  Too  free  from  atiy 
taint  of  sin  or  shame  herself  ev«.r  to  suspect 
that  others  could  misinterpret  her  actions, 
Ilerminia  was  hardly  aware  how  the  gossip  of 
I^ower  Lane  made  free  in  time  with  the  name 
of  the  youni;  lady  who  had  taken  a  cotta<;e  in 
the  row,  and  whose  relations  with  the  tall 
gentleman  that  called  so  much  in  the  evenings 
were  beginning  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
neighborhood.  The  poor  slaves  of  washer- 
women and  working  men's  wives  all  around, 
with  whom  contented  slavery  to  a  drunken  hus- 
band was  the  only  "respectable"  condition,  — 
couldn't  understand  for  the  life  of  them  how 
the  pretty  young  lady  could  make  her  name  so 
cheap;  "and  her  that  i)retends  to  be  so  chari- 
table and  that,  and  goes  about  in  the  jiarish 
like  a  district  vi.sitor!"     ThouLih   to  be  sure  it 


Tin:   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


79 


had  already  struck  tlic  inindh  of  I^ower  Lane 
that  Ilcnninia  luvcr  went  "to  churcli  nor 
chapel;"  and  when  i)eople  cut  themselves 
adrift  from  church  and  chapel,  why,  what 
sort  of  morality  can  you  reasonahly  expect  of 
them?  Nevertheless,  Ilerminia's  manners  were 
so  sweet  and  engagini;,  to  rich  and  j)oor  alike, 
that  l^ower  Lane  seriously  regretted  what  it 
took  to  he  her  lapse  from  i;race.  Poor  purblind 
Bower  Lane!  A  life-time  would  have  failed  it 
to  discern  for  itself  how  infinitely  higher  than 
its  slavish  "respectability"  was  Ilerminia's 
freedom.  Li  which  respect,  indeed,  Hower  Lane 
was  no  doubt  on  a  dead  level  with  Heli^n-avia,  or, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  with  Lambeth  Palace. 

Ikit  Merminia,  for  her  i)art,  never  iliscovered 
she  was  talked  about.  To  the  i)ure  all  things 
are  pure;  and  Ilerminia  was  dowered  with  that 
perfect  purity.  And  though  Power  Lane  lay 
but  some  few  hundred  yaids  olf  from  the 
Ca»"lyle  Place  Ciirl's  School,  the  social  (;ulf 
between  them  yet  yawned  so  wide  that  i^ood 
old  ALss  Smith-Waters  from  Cambridi^^e,  the 
head-mistress  of  the  school,  never  cauu;ht  a 
siuLjle  echo  of  the  washeiwomen's  <;()ssip. 
Herminia's  life  throuirh  those  si.\  months  was 
one  unclouded  honeymoon.  On  Sundays,  she 
and  Alan  wt)uld  j;o  out  of  town  together,  and 
btroU  across  the  breezy  summit   of    Leith   Hill, 


80 


THK   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


or  among  the  brown  heather  and  garrulous 
jHUL'-wootls  that  perlunic  the  radiating  spurs  of 
Hind  Mead  with  their  aromaLic  resins.  Her 
h)ve    for    Ahm    was    profound    and    absorbing 


J-)  > 


vv 


hile  as  for  Alan,  the  more  he  gazed  into  the 
calm  depths  of  that  crystal  soul,  the  more 
deeply  did  he  admire  it.  Gradually  she  was 
raising  him  to  her  own  level.  It  is  impossible 
to  mix  with  a  lofty  nature  and  not  acquire  in 
time  some  tincture  of  its  nobler  and  more  gen- 
erous sentiments.  Hcrminia  was  weaning  Alan 
by  degrees  from  the  world  ;  she  was  teaching 
him  to  see  that  moral  ])urity  and  moral  earnest- 
ness are  worth  more,  after  all,  than  to  dwell  with 
purple  hangings  in  all  the  tents  of  iniquity. 
She  was  making  him  understand  and  sympathize 
with  the  motives  which  led  her  stoutly  on  to 
her  final  martyrdom,  w'  h  made  her  submit 
without  a  murmur  of  discontent  to  her  great 
renunciation. 

As  yet,  however,  there  was  no  hint  or  fore- 
cast of  actual  martyrdom.  On  the  contrary, 
her  life  flowed  in  all  the  halo  of  a  honeymoon. 
It  was  a  honeymoon,  too,  undisturbed  by  the 
]ietty  jars  and  discomforts  of  domestic  life; 
she  saw  Alan  too  seldom  for  either  ever  to  lose 
the  keen  sense  of  fresh  delight  in  the  other's 
presence.  When  she  met  him,  she  thrilled  to 
the  delicate  finger-tips.      llerminia  had  planned 


nil;   WOMAN    Willi    HID, 


ai 


it  so  of  HL't  pur|)osc.  In  her  reasoned  pliilos- 
nj)hy  of  life,  she  had  early  decidetl  th.it  't  is 
the  wear  and  tear  of  too  t  lose  daily  int-.-rcourse 
which  turns  unawares  the  lover  into  the  hus- 
band; and  she  had  determined  that  in  her  own 
converse  with  the  man  she  loved  that  cause  of 
disillusion  should  never  intrude  itself.  They 
conserved  their  romance  throujjjh  all  their 
pli<;hted  and  united  life.  Herminia  had  after- 
wards no  recollections  of  Alan  to  look  back 
upon  save   ideally  happy  ones. 

So  six  months  wore  away.  On  the  memory 
of  those  six  months  Ilerminia  was  to  subsist 
for  half  a  lifetime.  At  the  end  of  that  time, 
Alan  bcLfan  to  fear  that  if  she  did  not  soon 
withdraw  fr(jm  the  Carlyle  Place  School,  IMiss 
Smith-Waters  mii;ht  be^in  to  ask  inconvenient 
questions.  Ilerminia,  ever  true  to  her  j)rin- 
ciples,  was  for  stoppinijj  on  till  the  bitter  enti, 
and  compelling  Miss  Smith-Waters  to  dismiss 
her  from  her  situation.  lUit  Alan,  more  worldly 
wise,  foresaw  that  such  a  course  must  inevitably 
result  in  needless  annoyance  and  humiliation 
for  Ilerminia;  and  Ilerminia  was  ncnv  be.L,nn- 
nin<;  to  be  so  far  influenced  by  Alan's  person- 
ality that  she  yielded  the  [)oint  with  reluctance 
to  his  masculine  jud.;ment.  It  must  be  always 
so.  The  man  must  needs  retain  for  many  years 
to  come  the  personal  hegemony  he  has  usurped 


82 


Till-:  WOMAN  WHO  Din. 


(jvcr  the  woman  ;  and  the  woman  wlio  once  ac- 
cepts him  as  lover  or  as  luis])an(l  must  j^Mve 
way  in  tlie  end,  even  in  matters  of  i)rinci|)le, 
to  his  virile  self-assertion.  She  would  be  less 
a  woman,  and  he  less  a  man,  were  any  other 
result  })ossible.  Deep  down  in  the  veiy  roots 
of    the    idea    oi    sex    we    come    on    that    j)rime 


antithesii 


th 


le   male,    active   and    aLrirressive 


the  female,  sedentary,  passive,  and  rccej)tive. 

And  even  on  the  broader  question,  experience 
shows  one  it  is  always  so  in  the  world  we  live 
in.  No  man  or  w^oman  can  ^o  throu_L;h  life  in 
consistent  obedience  to  any  hi[;h  princi})le,  — 
not  even  the  willing  anti  deliberate  martyrs. 
We  must  bow  to  circumstances.  Ilerminia  had 
made  uj)  her  mind  beforehand  for  the  crown 
of  martyrdom,  the  one  possible  guerdon  this 
planet  can  l)estovv  upon  really  noble  and  disin- 
terested action.  And  she  never  shrank  from 
any  necessary  pang,  incidental  to  the  ])rophet's 
and  martyr's  existence.  Yet  even  so,  in  a 
society  almost  wholly  composed  of  mean  and 
ju'tty  souls,  incapable  of  comprehending  or 
appreciating  any  exalted  moral  standpoint,  it 
is  jiracticilly  ini|)ossible  to  live  from  day  to 
day  in  accordance  with  a  higher  or  purer 
standard.  The  martyr  who  should  try  so  to  walk 
without  deviation  of  any  sort,  turning  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left  in  the  smallest   par- 


Till-:    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


«3 


ticular,  must  acconiplisli  his  nKirtyrdom  pre- 
maturely oil  the  pettiest  side-issues,  and  would 
never  live  at  all  to  assert  at  the  stake  the  i;reat 
truth  whieh  is  the  lodestar  ami  -^oal  of  his 
existence. 

So  Herminia  gave  way.  Sadly  a[;ainst  her 
will  she  gave  way.  One  morning  in  early 
March,  she  al)sented  herself  from  her  place  in 
the  class-room  without  even  taking  leave  of 
her  beloved  schoolgirls,  whom  she  liad  tried 
so  hard  unobtrusively  to  train  up  towards  a 
rational  understanding  of  the  universe  around 
them,  and  sat  down  to  write  a  final  letter  of 
farewell  to  poor  straight-laced  kind-hearted 
Miss  Smith-Waters.  She  sat  down  to  it  with 
a  sigh;  for  Miss  Smith -Waters,  though  iier  out- 
look ui)on  the  cosmos  was  through  one  narrow 
chink,  was  a  good  soul  uj)  to  her  Mghts,  and 
had  been  really  fond  and  proud  of  Herminia. 
She  had  rather  shown  her  off,  indeed,  as  a 
social  trump  card  to  the  hesitating  i)arent,  — 
"This  is  our  second  mistress.  Miss  Barton;  you 
know  her  father,  perhaps;  such  an  excell'-nt 
man,  the  Dean  of  Dunwich. "  And  now,  Her- 
minia sat  down  with  a  heavy  heart,  thinking  to 
herself  what  a  stab  of  pain  the  avowal  she  had 
to  make  would  send  throbbing  througii  tiiat 
gentle  old  breast,  and  how  absolutely  incapal)lo 
dear  Miss  Smith-Waters  could  be  of  ever  a[)pie- 


84 


Till-:   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


ciatinf(  the  conscientious  reasons  which  had 
led  her,  Iphigenia  like,  to  her  self-imposed 
sacrifice. 

liut,  for  all  that,  she  wrote  her  letter  through, 
delicately,  sweetly,  with  feminine  tact  and  fem- 
inine reticence.  She  told  Miss  Smith-Waters 
frankly  enough  all  it  was  necessary  Miss  Smith- 
Waters  should  know;  but  she  said  it  with  such 
daintiness  that  even  that  conventionalized  and 
hided)()und  old  maid  couldn't  help  feeling  and 
recognizing  the  purity  and  nobility  of  her  mis- 
guided action.  Poor  child,  Miss  Smith-W^aters 
thought;  she  was  mistaken,  of  course,  sadly  and 
grievously  mistaken;  but,  then,  'twas  her  heart 
that  misled  her,  no  doubt;  and  Miss  Smith- 
Waters,  having  dim  recollections  of  a  far-away 
time  when  she  herself  too  possessed  some  rudi- 
mentary fragment  of  such  a  central  vascular 
organ,  fairly  cried  over  the  poor  girl's  letter 
with  sympathetic  shame,  and  remorse,  and  vex- 
ation. Miss  Smith-Waters  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  understand  that  if  Ilerminia  had 
thought  her  conduct  in  the  faintest  degree 
wrong,  or  imleed  anything  but  the  highest  and 
best  for  humanity,  she  could  never  conceivably 
have  allowed  even  that  loving  heart  of  hers  to 
hurry  her  into  it.  b'or  llerminia's  devotion  to 
princi^de  was  not  less  but  far  greater  than 
Miss  Smith-Waters's  own;  only,  as  it  hapjiened, 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   Din. 


85 


the    principles    themselves    were   diametrically 
opposite. 

Ilermiiiia  wrote  her  note  with  not  a  few  tears 
for  poor  Miss  Smith-Waters's  (lisai)pointment. 
That  is  the  worst  of  living;  a  life  morally  ahead 
of  your  contem})oraries ;  what  you  do  with  pro- 
foundest  conviction  of  its  eternal  rij^htness  can- 
not fail  to  arouse  hostile  and  painful  feelin<^^s 
even  in  the  souls  of  the  most  ri;_;lit-minded  of 
your  friends  who  still  live  in  bondai^e  to  the 
conventional  lies  antl  the  conventional  injus- 
tices. It  is  the  good,  indeed,  who  are  most 
against  you.  Still,  Herminia  steeled  her  heart 
to  tell  the  simple  truth, — how,  for  the  right's 
sake  and  humanity's  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  eschew  the  accursed  thing,  and  to  strike 
one  bold  blow  for  the  freedom  and  unfettered 
individuality  of  women.  She  knev/  in  what 
obloquy  her  action  would  involve  her,  she  said ; 
but  she  knew  too,  that  to  do  right  for  right's 
sake  was  a  duty  imposed  by  nature  upon  every 
one  of  us;  and  that  the  clearer  we  could  sec 
ahead,  and  the  farther  in  front  we  could  look, 
the  more  profoundly  did  that  duty  shine  forth 
for  us.  I^'or  her  own  part,  she  had  never  shrunk 
from  doing  what  she  knew  to  be  right  for  man- 
kind in  the  end,  though  she  felt  sure  it  must 
lead  her  to  personal  misery.  Yet  unless  one 
woman  were  prepared  to  lead  the  way,  no  free* 


Ml 


86 


TIIK   WOMAN   Wlln    Din. 


dom  was  }-)ossihlc.  Slic  had  found  a  man  with 
wlioni  she  (^)iil(l  spend  her  litr  in  s\inj)atliy  aiul 
united  usefulness;  and  witli  him  she  had  elected 
to  s|)end  it  in  the  way  pointed  out  to  us  by 
nature.  Acting-  on  Ids  advice,  thouL;h  some- 
what ai^ainst  her  own  jud^i^ment,  she  meant  to 
leave  ]Cn<;land  for  the  present,  only  returninL; 
a<.;ain  when  she  could  return  with  the  dear  life 
they  had  !)oth  been  instrumental  in  brin-ini; 
into  the  world,  and  to  which  henceforth  her 
main  attention  must  be  directed.  She  signed  it, 
"Your  ever  irrateful  and  devoted  Mkkmima." 

Poor  Miss  Smith-Waters  laid  down  that  as- 
tonishing, that  incredible  letter  in  a  perfect 
whirl  of  amazement  antl  stupefaction.  She 
did  n't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  It  seemed 
to  run  counter  to  all  her  preconceived  ideas  of 
moral  action.  That  a  young  girl  should  ven- 
ture to  think  for  herself  at  all  about  right  and 
wrong  was  passing  strange;  that  she  should 
arrive  at  original  notions  upon  those  abstruse 
subjects,  which  were  not  the  notions  of  con- 
stituted authority  and  of  the  universal  slave- 
drivers  and  obscurantists  generally,  —  notions 
full  of  luminousness  upon  tlie  real  relations 
and  duties  of  our  race,  —  was  to  poor,  cramped 
Miss  Smith-Waters  well-nigh  inconceivable. 
That  a  young  girl  should  prefer  freedom  to 
slavery;  should  deem    it  more   moral   to   retain 


THE    WOMAN'    WHO    1)1(1. 


87 


her  (livincly-C(jnfcrro(l  iiKlivuluality  in  spite  of 
the  world  thun  to  yicUl  it  up  to  a  iikiii  tor  lito 
in  return  for  the  price  of  her  boanl  and  hxli;-- 
iuLr;  should  retuse  to  sell  her  own  bodx  for  a 
comfortable  home  and  the  shelter  ul  a  name,  — • 
these  things  seemed  !«•  Miss  Smith-Waters, 
with  her  smaller-catechism  standards  of  right 
and  wrong,  scarcely  short  of  sheer  madness. 
Yet  Ilerminia  had  so  endeared  herself  to  the 
okl  lady's  soul  that  on  receipt  of  her  letter 
Miss  Smith-Waters  went  upstairs  to  her  own 
room  with  a  neuralgic  headache,  and  never 
again  in  her  life  referred  to  her  late  second 
mistress  in  any  other  terms  than  as  "my  poor 
dear  sweet  misguided   Ilerminia." 

But  when  it  l^ecame  kn<)\vn  next  morning  in 
Bower  Lane  that  the  queenly-looking  school- 
mistress who  used  to  go  round  among  "our 
girls "  with  tickets  for  concerts  and  lectures 
and  that,  hatl  disappeared  suddenly  with  the 
nicedooking  young  man  who  used  to  come 
a-courting  her  on  vSundays  antl  evenings,  the 
amazement  and  surprise  (jf  respectable  l^ower 
Lane  was  simply  unbounded.  "  Who  would  have 
thought,"  the  red-faced  matrons  of  the  cottages 
remarked,  over  their  c[uart  of  bitter,  "the  pore 
thing  had  it  in  her!  Hut  there,  it's  these 
demure  ones  as  is  always  the  slyest !  "  For 
Bower  Lane  could  o;ily  judge  that  austere  soul 


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88 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


by  its  own  vulg-ar  standard  (as  did  also  Be?- 
gravia).  Most  luvv  minds,  indeed,  imagine  abso- 
lute  hypocrisy  must  be  involved  in  any  striving 
after  goodness  and  abstract  right -doing  on  the 
part  of  any  who  happen  to  disbelieve  in  their 
own  blood-thirsty  deities,  or  their  own  vile 
woman-degrading  and  prostituting  morality.  In 
the  topsy-turvy  philosophy  of  liower  Lane  and 
of  Belgravia,  what  is  usual  is  right;  while  any 
conscious  striving  to  be  better  and  nobler  than 
the  mass  around  one  is  regarded  at  once  as 
cither  insane  or  criminal. 


^■i--i?ss^-i«=-^a/j-.. 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


89 


VIII. 


They  were  bound  for  Italy;    so  Alan   had   de- 
cided.      Turning  over  in  his  mind  the  pros  and 
cons  of  the  situation,  he  had  wisely  determined 
that    Ilerminia's    confinement    had   better   take 
place  somewhere  else  than   in   England.      The 
difficulties  and  inconveniences  which  block  the 
way  in  English  lodgings  would  have  been  well- 
nigh  insufferable;  in  Italy,  people  would   only 
know  that  an  English  signora  and  her  husband 
had  taken  apartments   for  a  month   or  two   in 
some  solemn   old    palazzo.     To    Ilerminia,    in- 
deed, this  expatriation  at  such   a   moment   was 
in  many  ways  to  the  last  degree  distasteful;  for 
her  own  part,  she  hated  the  merest  ai  pcarance 
of  concealment,  and  would  rather  have  Haunted 
the  open  expression  of  her  supreme  moral  faith 
before    the    eyes    of    all    London.      lUit    Alan 
pointed  out  to   her  the  many  practical  diffieul- 
tics,  amounting  almost  to  impossibilities,  which 
beset  suck  a  course;  and   Ilerminia,  though  it 
was  hateful  to  her  thus  to  yield  to  the  immoral 
prejudices  of  a  false  social   system,   gave  way 


go 


'IIIE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


m  I 


at   last    to   Alan's    repeated   expression    of   the 
necessity  for  prudent  and  practical  action.      She 


wo: 


.1  1 


;o  with  him  to  Italy,  slie  said,  as  a  ]:)roof 
of  her  affection  and  her  confidence  in  his  judg- 
ment, thou^jjh  she  still  thouijht  the  right  thing 
was  to  stand  by  her  guns  fearlessly,  and  fight  it 
out  to  the  bitter  end  undismayed  in  England. 

On  tliC  morning  of  their  departure,  Alan 
called  to  see  his  father,  and  cxjdain  the  situa- 
tion. He  felt  some  explanation  was  by  this 
time  necessary.  As  yet  no  one  in  London 
knew  anything  officially  as  to  his  relations  with 
Merminia;  and  for  Hcrminia's  sake,  Alan  had 
hitherto  ke})t  them  perfectly  private.  But  now, 
further  reticence  was  both  useless  and  undesir- 
able; he  determined  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
the  whole  story  to  his  father.  It  was  early  for 
a  barrister  to  be  leaving  town  for  the  Easter 
vacation;  and  though  Alan  had  chambers  of 
his  own  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  where  he  lived  by 
himself,  he  was  so  often  in  and  out  of  the  house 
in  ILirley  Street  that  his  absence  from  Lon- 
don would  at  once  have  attracted  the  parental 
attention. 

Dr.  Merrick  was  a  model  of  the  close-shaven 
clear-cut  London  consultant.  His  shirt-front 
was  as  impeccable  as  his  moral  character  was 
spotless  —  in  the  way  that  Rclgravia  and  Far- 
ley  Street  still    understood   spotlessness.      He 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    hll). 


91 


if 


I 


was  tall  and  straiglit,  and  unl)cnt  by  a:;-o;  the 
professional  poker  wliieh  he  had  swallowed  in 
early  life  seemed  to  stand  hini  in  -ood  stead 
after  sixty  years,  thou-h  his  hair  had  whitened 
fast,  and  his  l)row  was  furrowed  with  most 
deliberative  wrinkles.  So  unapproaehable  he 
looked,  tliat  not  even  his  own  sons  dared  speak 
frankly  before  him.  His  very  smile  was  re- 
strained; he  hardly  permitted  himself  for  a 
moment  that  weak  human  relaxation. 

Alan    called    at     Harley    Street    immediately 
after  breakfast,  just  a  cpiarter  of  an  horn-  Ijefore 
the  time  allotted   to   his   father's   first    patient. 
Dr.    Merrick   received    him    in    the   consulting- 
room    with    an    interro<;ative    raisin.i;    of    those 
straight,  thin  eyebrows.      The  mere  l(V)k  on  his 
face  disconcerted  Alan.      With  an  effort  the  son 
began    and    explained    his    errand.      Mis   father 
settled  himself  down  into  his  ami^le  and  digni- 
fied professional  chair  — old  oak  roundd)acked, 
—  and  with  head  half  turned,  and  hands  folded 
in  front  of  him,  seemed  to  diagnose  with  rapt 
attention    this   singular   form    of    psychological 
malady.      When  Alan   paused  for  a  seconc?  be- 
tween   his    halting    sjntences    and    lloundered 
about  in  search  of  a  more  delicate  way  of  glid- 
ing  over    the    thin    ice,    his    father   eyed     him 
closely  with  those  keen,  gray  orbs,  and  after  a 
moment's  hesitation  put  in  a  "Well,  continue," 


9' 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DH). 


.1 


without  the  faintest  sign  of  any  human  emotion. 
Alan,  tluis  driven  to  it,  achnitted  awkwardly  hit 
hy  bit  that  he  was  leavinu;  London  before  the 
end  of  term  beeause  he  iiad  managed  to  get 
himself  into  delicate  relati(jns  with  a  lady. 

Dr.  Merrick  twirled  his  thumbs,  and  in  a 
colorless  voice  enquired,  without  relaxing  a 
muscle  of  his  set  face, 

"What  sort  of  lady,  please.^  A  lady  of  the 
ballet.^" 

"Oh,  no!"  Alan  cried,  giving  a  little  start  of 
horror.  "Quite  different  from  that.  A  real 
lady." 

"They  always  arc  real  ladies,  — for  the  most 
part  brought  down  by  untoward  circumstances," 
his  father  responded  coldly.  "  As  a  rule,  indeed, 
I  observe,  they  're  clergyman's  daughters." 

"This  one  is,"  Alan  answered,  growing  hot. 
"  In  point  of  fact,  to  prevent  ycur  saying  any- 
thing you  might  afterwards  regret,  I  think  I  'd 
better  mention  the  lady's  name.  It  's  Miss 
Herminia  Ikirton,  the  Dean  of  Dunwich's 
daughter." 

His  father  drew  a  long  breath.  The  corners 
of  the  clear-cut  mouth  dropped  down  for  a 
second,  and  the  straight,  thin  eyebrows  were 
momentarily  elevated.  But  he  gave  no  other 
overt  sign  of  dismay  or  astonishment. 

"That  makes  a  great  difference,  of  course," 


»i  ,!l 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID 


93 


he  answered,    after   a    \oivj;  pause.      "She  ts  a 
lady,  I  admit.      And  she  's  been  to  Girton." 

"She  has,"  the  son  replied,  seareely  luiowing 
how  to  continue. 

Dr.  Merrick  twirled  his  thum])s  once  more, 
witn  outward  cahn,  for  a  minute  or  two.  This 
was  most  inconvenient  in  a  professional  family. 
"And  I  understand  you  to  say,"  he  went  on  in 
a  pitiless  voice,  "Miss  Barton's  state  of  health 
is  such  that  you  think  it  advisable  to  remove 
her  at  once  —  for  her  confinement,  to  Italy.?" 

"Exactly  so,"  Alan  answered,  gulpin^^  down 
his  discomfort. 

The  father  ^azed  at  him  long  and  steadily. 
"Well,  I  always  knew  you  were  a  fool,"  he 
said  at  last  with  paternal  candor;  "but  I  never 
yet  knew  you  were  quite  such  a  fool  as  this 
business  shows  you.  You  '11  have  to  marry  the 
girl  now  in  the  end.  Why  the  devil  could  n't 
you  marry  her  outright  at  first,  instead  ot  se- 
ducing her.''  " 

"  I  did  not  seduce  her,"  Alan  answered  stoutly. 
"No  man  on  earth  could  ever  succeed  in  seduc- 
ing that  stainless  woman." 

Dr.  Merrick  stared  hard  at  him  without 
changing  his  attitude  on  his  old  oak  chair. 
Was  the  boy  going  mad,  or  what  the  dickens 
did  he  mean  by  it.? 

"You    /iav^    seduced   her,"    he   said    slowly. 


94 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


'IP '' 

111: 


"And  slic  is  ;/o/  stainless  if  she  has  allowed 
you   to  do  so." 

"  It  is  the  innocence  whicli  survives  exiicriencc 
that  I  value,  not  the  innocence  which  dies  with 
it,"  Alan  answered  <;ravely. 

"  I  don't  understand  these  delicate  distinc- 
tions," Dr.  Merrick  interposed  with  a  polite 
sneer.  "  I  f^atliei'  from  what  you  said  just  now 
that  the  lady  is  shortly  expecting  her  confine- 
ment;  and  as  she  isn't  married,  you  tell  me,  I 
naturally  infer  that  somebody  must  have  seduced 
her  —  either  you,  or  some  other  man." 

It  was  Alan's  turn  now  to  draw  himself  up 
very  stiflly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  he  answered;  "you 
have  no  right  to  speak  in  such  a  tone  about  a 
lady  in  Miss  Barton's  i)osition.  Miss  IJarton 
has  conscientious  scruples  about  the  marriage- 
tie,  which  in  theory  I  share  with  her;  she  was 
unwilling  to  enter  into  any  relations  with  me 
cxce})t  on  terms  of  perfect  freedom." 

"I  sec,"  the  old  man  went  on  with  provoking 
calmness.  **  She  preferred,  in  fact,  to  be,  not 
your  wife,   but  your  mistress." 

Alan  rose  indignantly.  "Father,"  he  said, 
with  just  wrath,  "  if  you  insist  upon  discussing 
this  matter  with  me  in  such  a  spirit,  I  must 
refuse  to  stay  here.  T  came  to  tell  you  the 
difficulty  in  which  I  find  myself,  and  to  explain 


Tin:  ^V()^rA\  who  md 


95 


to  you  my  jiosition.  If  you  won't  let  mc  tell 
you  in  my  own  way,  I  must  leave  the  house 
without  havin-  laid  the  facts  before  you." 

The  father  spread  his  two  palms  in  front  of 
him    with    demonstrative    openness.      "As    you 
will,"  he  answered.     "  My  time  is  much  en-aoed. 
I  expect  a  patient  at  a  quarter  past  ten.''  You 
must  be  brief,  please." 

Au:n    made    one    more    effort.      In    a    very 
earnest    voice,    he    be-an    to    expound    to    his 
father  Herminia's  point  of  view.      Dr.    Merrick 
listened  for  a  second  or  two  in  calm  impatience. 
Then  he  consulted  his  watch.     ''  Excuse  me,"  he 
said.      "I  have  just  three  minutes.      Let  us  o-^t 
at  once  to  the  practical  part  — the  therapeutks 
of  the  case,  omitting  its  aetiology.      You  're  go- 
ing to  take  the  young  lady  to   Italy.     When  s'he 
gets  there,    will  she  marry  you.?     And   do  you 
expect    me   to  help   in  providing   for  you   both 
after  this  insane  adventure.'" 

Alan's  face  was  red  as  fire.  *'She  will  wt 
marry  me  when  she  gets  to  Italy,"  he  answered 
decisively.  -And  I  don't  want  you  to  do  any- 
thing to  provide  for  either  of  us." 

The  father  looked  at  him  with  the  face  he 
was  wont  to  assume  in  scanning  tlie  appearance 
of  a  confirmed  monomaniac.  ''She  will  not 
marry  you,"  he  answered  sh)wly;  "and  you 
intend  to   go  on   living  with  her  in   open  con- 


cf, 


THE   WOMAN   Wllf)   DID. 


W 


cu])ina,G;c!     A    lady  of  birth   and   position!     Is 
that  your  mcanin*^?" 

"Father,"  Alan  cried  dcspairin^^ly,  "Ilcr- 
minia  would  not  consent  to  live  with  me  on 
any  other  terms.  To  her  it  would  be  disf^racjful, 
shameful,  a  sin,  a  reproach,  a  dereliction  of 
principle.  She  could ii  t  j^o  back  upon  her 
whole  past  life.  She  lives  for  nothing  else 
but  the  emancii)ation  of  women." 

■'And  you  will  aid  and  abet  her  in  her  folly.-*" 
the  father  asked,  looking  up  sharply  at  him. 
**  You  will  persist  in  this  evil  course?  You 
will  face  the  world  and  openly  defy  morality.-*  " 

"I  will  not  counsel  the  woman  I  most  love 
and  admire  to  purchase  her  own  ease  by  prov- 
ing false  to  her  convictions,"  Alan  answered 
stoutly. 

Dr.  Merrick  Grazed  at  the  watch  on  his  table 
once  more.  Then  he  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 
*' I'atient  here.-*"  he  asked  curtly,  "Show  him 
in  then  at  once.  And,  Napper,  if  Mr.  Alan 
Merrick  ever  calls  again,  will  you  tell  him  I  'm 
out.-*  —  and  your  mistress  as  well,  and  all  the 
young  ladies. "  He  turned  coldly  to  Alan.  "I 
must  guard  your  mother  and  sisters  at  least," 
he  said  in  a  chilly  voice,  "from  the  contamina- 
tion of  this  woman's  opinions." 

Alan  bowed  without  a  word,  and  left  the  room. 
He  never  again  saw  the  face  of  his  father. 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


97 


IX. 


Alan   Merrick   strode  from   his   father's  door 
that  day  stun-  with  a  burning  sense  of  uron- 
and  injustice.      More  than  ever  before  in  his  life 
he  realized  to  himself  the  abject  hollovvness  of 
that   conventional   code   which   masquerades    in 
our  midst  as  a  system   of  morals.      If  he   had 
continued  to  "live  single"  as  we  hypocritically 
phrase  it,  and  so  helped  by  one  unit  to  spread 
the  festering  social  canker  of  prostitution,  on 
which  as  basis,  like  some   median-al   castle   on 
its  foul  dungeon  vaults,  the  entire  superstruc- 
ture of  our  outwardly  decent  modern  society  is 
reared,  his  father  no  doubt  would  have  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and    blinked    his  cold    eyes,  "and 
commended  the  wise  young  man  for  abstaining 
from  marriage  till  his  means  could  permit  him 
to  keep  a  wife  of  his  own  class  in  the  way  she 
was  accustomed  to.      The  wretched    victims    of 
that  vile  system  might  die  unseen  and  unpitied 
in  some  hideous  back  slum,  without  touching  one 
chord  of    remorse   or    regret    in    Dr.    Merr"ick's 
nature.      He  was  steeled  against  their  sufferin-. 


OS 


Tlir,  V.'OMAN   WHO   Din. 


Or  ap^ain,  if  Alan  had  sold  his  virility  for  ^okl 
to  S0111C  rich  heiress  of  his  set,  like  ICthel  Water- 
ton —  had  bartered  Ids  freedom  to  be  lier  wedded 
paramour  in  a  loveless  marria,L!;e,  liis  father  would 
not  ordy  have  i;ladly  aeciuiesced,  but  would 
have  conj^^ratulated  h's  son  on  his  luck  and  his 
prudence.  Yet,  because  Alan  had  chosen  rather 
to  form  a  blameless  union  of  pure  affection 
with  a  woman  who  was  in  every  way  his  moral 
and  mental  superior,  but  in  desjiite  of  the  con- 
ventional ban  of  society,  Dr.  Merrick  had  cast 
him  off  as  an  open  reprobate.  And  why.^^ 
Simply  because  that  union  was  unsanctioned 
by  the  exponents  of  a  law  they  despised,  and 
unblessed  by  the  priests  of  a  creed  they  rejected. 
Alan  saw  at  once  it  is  not  the  intrinsic  moral 
value  of  an  act  such  people  think  about,  but 
the  li^ht  in  which  it  "  regarded  by  a  selfish 
society. 

Unchastity,  it  has  been  well  said,  is  union 
without  love;  and  Alan  would  have  none  of  it. 

He  went  back  to  Ilerminia  more  than  ever 
convinced  of  that  spotless  woman's  moral  supe- 
riority to  every  one  else  he  had  ever  met  with. 
She  sat,  a  lonely  soul,  enthroned  amid  the  halo 
of  her  own  perfect  purity.  To  Alan,  she  seemed 
like  one  of  those  early  Italian  Madonnas,  lost 
in  a  glory  of  light  that  surrountls  and  half  hides 
them.      He  reverenced  her  far  too  much  to  tell 


if  I' 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


99 


her  all  that  had  happened.  How  could  he 
wound  those  sweet  ears  with  his  father's  eoarsc 
epithets  ? 

They  took  the  club  train  that  afternoon  to 
Paris.  There  they  slept  the  ni,i;ht  in  a  fusty 
hotel  near  the  Gare  du  Nord,  and  went  on  in 
the  morning  by  the  daylii^ht  express  to  Switzer- 
land. At  Lucerne  and  Milan  they  broke  the 
journey  once  more.  Ilerniinia  had  never  yet 
gone  further  afield  from  ICngland  than  I'aris; 
and  this  first  glimpse  of  a  wider  world  was 
intensely  interesting  to  her.  Who  can  heli) 
being  pleased,  indeed,  with  that  wonderful  St. 
Gothard  —  the  crystal  green  Reuss  shattering 
itself  in  white  s})ray  into  emerald  pools  by  the 
side  of  the  railway;  Wasen  church  perched 
high  upon  its  solitary  hilltop;  the  liiaschina 
ravine,  the  cleft  rocks  of  Faido,  the  serpen- 
tine twists  and  turns  of  the  ramping  line  as 
it  mounts  or  descends  its  spiral  zigzags.^ 
Dewy  Alpine  pasture,  tossed  masses  of  land- 
slip, white  narcissus  on  the  banks,  snowy  peaks 
in  the  background  —  all  alike  were  fresh  visions 
of  delight  to  Herminia;  and  she  drank  it  all  in 
with  the  pure  childish  joy  of  a  poetic  nature. 
It  was  the  Switzerland  of  her  dreams,  reinforced 
and  complemented  by  unsuspected  detail. 

One    trouble   alone    disturbed    her    peace    of 
mind     upon     that    delightful     journey.      Alan 


lOO 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


li 


entered  their  names  at  all  the  hotels  where 
tiiey  stopped  as  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alan  Merriek 
of  London."  That  deeeption,  as  Ilerminia  held 
it,  cost  her  many  qualms  of  conscience;  but 
Alan,  with  masculine  common-sense,  was  firm 
upon  the  point  that  no  other  description  was 
practically  possible;  and  Herminia  yielded  with 
a  sigh  to  his  greater  worldly  wisdom.  She  had 
yet  to  learn  the  lesson  which  sooner  or  later 
comes  home  to  all  the  small  minority  who  care 
a  pin  about  righteousness,  that  in  a  world  like 
our  own,  it  is  impossible  for  the  righteous 
always  to  act  consistently  up  to  their  most 
sacred  convictions. 

At  Milan,  they  stopped  long  enough  to  snatch 
a  glimpse  of  the  cathedral,  and  to  take  a  hasty 
walk  through  the  pictured  glories  of  the  Brera. 
A  vague  suspicion  began  to  cross  Herminia's 
mind,  as  she  gazed  at  the  girlish  Madonna  of 
th(i  Sposalizio,  tiiat  perhaps  she  was  n't  quite  as 
well  adapted  to  love  Italy  as  Switzerland.  Na- 
ture she  understood ;  was  art  yet  a  closed  book 
to  her.!*  If  so,  she  would  be  sorry;  for  Alan,  in 
whom  the  artistic  sense  was  largely  developed, 
loved  his  Italy  dearly;  and  it  would  be  a  real 
cause  of  regret  to  her  if  she  fell  short  in  any 
way  of  Alan's  expectations  Moreover,  at  tad/c 
d hCytc  that  eveniiig,  a  slight  episode  occurred 
which  roused  to  the  full  once  more  poor  Her- 


la 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


ror 


minia's  tender  conscience.      Talk  had  somehow 
turned  on   Shelley's   Italian  wanderino-s ;  and  a 
benevolent-lookin-    cler-yman    opposite,    with 
that  vacantly  well-meanin-   smile,    peculiar   to 
a  certam  type  of  country  rector,  was  apolo-nV., 
uvr  in  what  he  took  to  he  a  broad  and  -enerous 
spirit   of  divine  toleration   for  the   -reat  moral 
teacher's  supposed  lapses  from  the  normal  rule 
of  right  living.      Much,  the  benevolent-lookin- 
gentleman  opined,with  beaming  spectacles   mus't 
be  forgiven  to  men  of  genius.     Their  tempta- 
tions no  doubt  are  far  keener  than  with  must  of 
us.      An  eager    imagination  —  a  vivid  sense  ot 
beauty —  quick    readiness  to  be  moved    by  the 
sight    of    physical  or  moral    loveliness  ~  tl->se 
were    palliations,    the   old    clergyman    held    of 
much  that  seemed  wrong  and  contradictory  to 
our  eyes  in  the  lives  of  so  many  great  men  and 
women. 

At    sound    of    such    immoral    and    unworthv 
teaching,    Herminia's   ardent    soul    rose    up    in 
revolt  within  her.      "Oh,  no,"  she  cried  eagerly 
leaning  across  the  table  as  she  spoke.     *'  I  can't 
allow    that    plea.      It's   degrading   to    Shelley, 
and   to  all   true  appreciation   of   the  duties   of 
genius.      Not  less  but  more  than  most  of  us  is 
the  genius  bound  to  act  up  with  all  his  Uiight 
to  the  highest  moral  law,  to  be  the  prophet  a"nd 
interpreter   of    the    highest    moral    excellence. 


102 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DTD. 


To  whom  much  is  given,  of  him  much  shall  b'^ 
required.  Just  because  the  man  or  woman  of 
genius  stands  raised  on  a  pedestal  so  far  above 
the  mass  have  we  the  right  to  expect  that  he  or 
she  should  point  us  the  way,  should  go  before 
us  as  pioneer,  should  be  more  careful  of  the 
truth,  more  disdainful  of  the  wrong,  down  to 
the  smallest  particular,  than  the  ordinary  per- 
son. There  are  poor  souls  born  into  this  world 
so  petty  and  narrow  and  wanting  in  originality 
that  one  can  only  expect  them  to  tread  the 
beaten  track,  be  it  ever  so  cruel  and  wicked  and 
mistaken.  But  from  a  Shelley  or  a  George  Eliot, 
we  expect  greater  things,  and  we  have  a  right  to 
expect  them.  That 's  why  I  can  never  quite  for- 
give George  Eliot  —  who  knew  the  truth,  and 
found  freedom  for  herself,  and  practised  it  in 
her  life  —  for  upholding  in  her  books  the  con- 
ventional lies,  the  conventional  prejudices;  and 
that 's  why  I  can  never  admire  Shelley  enough, 
who,  in  an  age  of  slavery,  refused  to  abjure  or 
to  deny  his  freedom,  but  acted  unto  death  to 
the  full  height  of  his  princii)les." 

The  beu'.^volent-looking  clergyman  gazed 
aghast  at  Herminia.  Then  he  turned  slowly 
to  Alan.  "Your  wife,"  he  said  in  a  mild  and 
terrified  voice,  "is  a  very  advanced  lady." 

Herminia  lonired  to  blurt  out  the  whole 
simple  truth.     "I  :' n  not  his  wife.      I  am  not. 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


103 


and  could  never  be  wife  or  slave  to  any  man. 
This  is  a  very  dear  friend,  and  he  and  I  arc 
travelling  as  friends  together."  But  a  warning 
glance  from  Alan  made  her  hold  her  peace  with 
difficulty  and  acquiesce  as  best  she  might  in 
the  virtual  deception.  Still,  the  incident  went 
to  her  heart,  and  made  her  more  anxious  than 
ever  to  declare  her  convictions  and  her  practi- 
cal obedience  to  them  openly  before  the  world. 
She  remembered,  oh,  so  well  one  of  her  father's 
sermons  that  had  vividly  imj)ressed  her  in  the 
dear  old  days  at  Dunwich  Cathedral.  It  was 
preached  upon  the  text,  "Come  ye  out  and  be 
ye  separate." 

From  Milan  they  went  on  direct  to  Florence. 
Alan  had  decided  to  take  rooms  for  the  summer 
at  Perugia,  and  there  to  see  Herminia  safely 
through  her  maternal  troubles.  Pie  loved  Peru- 
gia,  he  said;  it  was  cool  and  high-perched;  and 
then,  too,  it  was  such  a  capital  place  for  sketch- 
ing.  Besides,  he  was  anxious  to  complete  his 
studies  of  the  early  Umbrian  painters.  But 
they  must  have  just  one  week  at  IHorence 
together  before  they  went  up  among  the  hills. 
Florence  was  the  place  for  a  beginner  to  find 
out  what  Italian  art  was  aiming  at.  You  got 
it  there  in  its  full  logical  development  —  every 
phase,  step  by  step,  in  organic  unity;  while 
elsewhere  you   saw  but   stages   and   jumps  and 


ii; 


104 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


results,  interrupted  here  and  there  by  disturb- 
in<j;  lacuna.'.  S(j  at  T'lorence  they  st()p])e(l  for 
a  week  en  route,  and  llerminia  first  learnt  what 
Florentine  art  proposed  to  itself. 

Ah,  that  week  in  Florence !  What  a  dream 
of  deli^dit!  'T  was  ])ure  gold  to  Herminia. 
How  could  it  well  be  otherwise.''  It  seemed  to 
her  afterwards  like  the  last  flicker  of  joy  in  a 
doomed  life,  before  its  light  went  out  and  left 
her  forever  in  utter  darkness.  To  be  sure,  a 
week  is  a  terribly  cramped  and  hurried  time  in 
which  to  view  Florence,  the  beloved  city,  whose 
ineffable  glories  need  at  least  one  whole  winter 
adequately  to  gras})  them.  But  failing  a  win- 
ter, a  week  with  the  gods  made  llerminia 
happy.  She  carried  away  but  a  confused  plian- 
tasmagoria,  it  is  true,  of  the  soaring  tower  of 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  pointing  straight  with  its 
slender  shaft  to  heaven ;  of  the  swelling  dome  and 
huge  ribs  of  the  cathedral,  seen  vast  from  the 
terrace  in  front  of  San  Miniato;  of  the  endless 
Madonnas  and  the  deathless  saints  niched  in 
golden  tabernacles  at  the  Ufifizi  and  the  Pitti ;  of 
the  tender  grace  of  P^ra  Angelico  at  San  Marco; 
of  the  infinite  wealth  and  astounding  variety 
of  Donatello's  marble  in  the  spacious  courts  of 
the  cool  Bargello.  But  her  window  at  the 
hotel  looked  straight  as  it  could  look  down  the 
humming  Calzaioli  to  the  pierced  and  encrusted 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DHX 


105 


front  of  Giotto's  campanile,  with  the  cupola  of 
San  Loren/.o  in  the  middle  distance,  and  the 
facade  of  Fiesole  standini;-  out  deep-blue  against 
the  dull  red  <;lare  of  evenin,<;  in  the  back- 
ground. If  that  were  not  enoui;h  to  sate  and 
enchant  Herminia,  she  would  indeed  have 
been  difficult.  And  with  Alan  by  her  side, 
every  joy  was  doubled. 

She  had  never  before  known  what  it  was  to 
have  her  lover  continuously  with  her.  And 
his  aid  in  those  long  corridors,  where  bambinos 
smiled  down  at  her  with  cliildish  lips,  helped 
her  wondrously  to  understand  in  so  short  a  time 
what  they  sought  to  convey  to  her.  y\lan  wa?. 
steeped  in  Italy;  he  knew  and  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  Tuscan  art;  and  now  for  the  first  time 
Herminia  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a 
thoroughly  new  subject  in  which  Alan  could  be 
her  teacher  from  the  very  beginning,  as  most 
men  arc  teachers  to  the  women  who  depend 
upon  them.  This  sense  of  support  and  restful - 
ness  and  clinging  was  fresh  and  delightful  to 
her.  It  is  a  woman's  ancestral  part  to  look  up 
to  the  man;  she  is  hai)piest  in  doing  it,  and 
must  long  remain  so;  and  Herminia  was  not 
sorry  to  find  herself  in  this  so  much  a  woman. 
She  thought  it  delicious  to  roam  through  the 
long  halls  of  some  great  gallery  with  Alan,  and 
let  him  point  out  to  her  the  pictures  he  loved 


io6 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DTD. 


ft 


best,  explain  their  peculiar  merits,  and  show 
the  subtle  relation  in  which  they  stood  to 
the  pictures  that  went  before  them  and  the 
pictures  that  came  after  them,  as  well  as  to  the 
other  work  of  the  same  master  or  his  contempo- 
raries. It  was  even  no  small  joy  to  her  to  find 
that  he  knew  so  much  more  about  art  and  ils 
message  than  she  did ;  that  she  could  look  up 
to  his  judgment,  confide  in  his  opinion,  see  the 
truth  of  his  criticism,  profit  much  by  his  in- 
struction. So  well  did  she  use  those  seven 
short  days,  indeed,  that  she  came  to  Florence 
with  Fra  Angelico,  Filippo  Lippi,  Botticelli, 
mere  names;  and  she  went  away  from  it  feel- 
ing that  she  had  made  them  real  friends  and 
possessions  for  a  life-time. 

So  the  hours  whirled  fast  in  those  enchanted 
halls,  and  Herminia's  soul  was  enriched  by 
new  tastes  and  new  interests.  O  towers  of 
fretted  stone!  O  jasper  and  porphyry!  Her 
very  state  of  health  made  her  more  susceptible 
than  usual  to  fresh  impressions,  and  drew  Alan 
at  the  same  time  every  day  into  closer  union 
with  her.  For  was  not  the  young  life  now 
quickening  within  her  half  his  and  half  hers, 
and  did  it  not  seem  to  make  the  father  by  reflex 
nearer  and  dearer  to  her.?  Surely  the  child 
that  was  nurtured,  unborn,  on  those  marble 
colonnades  and  those  placid   Saint   Catherines 


/ 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


ro/ 


must  draw  in  with  each  pulse  of  its  antenatal 
nutriment  some  tincture  of  beauty,  of  freedom 
of  culture!     So  Herminia  thou-ht  to  herself  as 
she  lay  awake  at  night  and  looked  out  of  the 
window   from    the  curtains   of   her  bed  at   the 
boundless  dome  and  the  tall  campanile  -leam- 
ing  white  in  the  moonlight.      So  we  have  each 
of  us  thought  — especially  the  mothers  in  Israel 
among  us  — about  the  unborn  babe  that  hastens 
along  to  its  birth  with  such  a  radiant  halo  of 
the  possible  future  ever  gilding  and  glorifying 
its  unseen  forehead. 


io8 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID- 


X. 


All  happy  times  must  end,  aiul  the  happier  the 
sooner.  At  one  short  week's  elose  they  hurried 
on  to  Peruiria. 

And  how  full  Alan  had  been  of  Peruiria 
beforehand!  He  loved  every  stone  of  the  town, 
every  shadow  of  the  hillsides,  he  told  Ilerminia 
at  Florence;  and  Ilerminia  started  on  her  way 
accordingly  well  prepared  to  fall  quite  as  madly 
in  love  with  the  Umbrian  capital  as  Alan  him- 
self had  done. 

The  railway  journey,  indeed,  seemed  ex- 
tremely pretty.  What  a  march  of  sweet  pic- 
tures! They  mounted  with  creaking  wheels  the 
slow  ascent  up  the  picturesque  glen  where  the 
Arno  runs  deep,  to  the  white  towers  of  Arezzo; 
then  Cortona  throned  in  state  on  its  lonely 
hill-top,  and  girt  by  its  gigantic  Etruscan  walls; 
next  the  low  bank,  the  lucid  green  water,  the 
olive-clad  slopes  of  reedy  Thrasymene;  last  of 
all,  the  sere  hills  and  city-capped  heights  of 
their  goal,   Perugia. 


TJIE   WOMAN   WHO    Dri). 


109 


For  its  name's  sake  alone,  Herminia  was  pre- 
pared to  admire  the  anti.pie    Und^rian   capital. 
And  Alan  l.n^ed  it  so  much,  and  was  so  cK  ter- 
mined  she  ou-ht   to  love   it   t(X^,   that  she  was 
ready   to    be    pleased    with    everythim;     in    it. 
Until    she  arrived    there -and  then,  "oh,   poor 
heart,  what  a  grievous  disapp  intment !     It  was 
late  April  weather  when  they  reached   the  sta- 
tion at  the  foot  of  that  hi-h  hill  where  Au-usta 
Perusia  sits  lordin.:c  it  on   her  throne  over  the 
wedded  valleys  of  the  Tiber  and  the  Clitumnus. 
Tramontana  was  blowin-.     No  rain  had  fallen 
for  weeks;  the  slopes  of  the  lower  Apennines, 
ever  dry  and  dusty,  shone  still  drier  and  dustier 
than    Alan    had   yet    beheld    them.      Herminia 
glanced    up  at    the    Ion-  white  road,    thick   in 
deep  gray  powder,  that   led   by  endless  zigzags 
along  the  dreary  slope  to  the  long  white  "town 
on  the  shadeless  hill-top.      At  first  sight  alone, 
Perugia  was  a  startling  disillusion  to  Herminia.' 
She  didn  't  yet  know  how  bitterly  she  was  doomed 
hereafter  to  hate  every  dreary  dirty  street  in  it. 
But  she  knew  at  the  first  blush  that  the  Perugia 
she  had  imagined  and  pictured  to  herself  did  n't 
really  exist  and  had  never  existed. 

She  had  figured  in  her  own  mind  a  beautiful 
breezy  town,  high  set  on  a  peaked  hill,  in  fresh 
and  mossy  country.  She  had  envisaged  the 
mountains  to  her  soul  as  clad  with  shady  woods, 


no 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


and  strewn  with  hup^e  boulders  under  whose 
umbraj^eous  shelter  bloomed  waving  masses  of 
the  pretty  pale  blue  Apennine  anemones  she 
saw  sold  in  big  bunches  at  the  street  corners 
in  Florence.  She  had  imagined,  in  short,  that 
Umbria  was  a  wilder  Italian  Wales,  as  fresh, 
as  green,  as  sweet-scented,  as  fountain-fed.  And 
she  knew  pretty  well  whence  she  had  derived 
that  strange  and  utterly  false  conception.  She 
had  fancied  Perugia  as  one  of  those  mountain 
villages  described  by  Macaulay,the  sort  of  hill- 
top stronghold 

"That,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine." 

Instead  of  that,  what  manner  of  land  did  she 
see  actually  before  her.^  Dry  and  shadeless 
hill-sides,  tilled  with  obtrusive  tilth  to  their 
topmost  summit;  ploughed  fields  and  hoary 
olive-groves  silvering  to  the  wind,  in  intermin- 
able terraces;  long  suburbs,  unlovely  in  their 
gaunt,  bare  squalor,  stretching  like  huge  arms 
of  some  colossal  cuttlefish  over  the  spurs  and 
shoulders  of  that  desecrated  mountain.  No 
woods,  no  moss,  no  coolness,  no  greenery;  all 
nature  toned  down  to  one  monotonous  grayness. 
And  this  dreary  desert  was  indeed  the  place 
where  her  baby  must  be  born,  the  baby  pre- 
destined  to  regenerate  humanity! 


Till-    WOMAN   WHO    nil).  lit 

^  Oh,  why  did  they  ever  leave  that  enchanted 
I'  I  ore  nee ! 

Meanwhile    Alan    had  nrot   to-ether   the  lui^r. 
gage,  and  en<;aged  a  ramshackle  Peruvian  cab; 
for    the    public    vehicles    of     Peni-ia  "kre    per- 
haps, as  a  class,  the  most  precarious  and   inco- 
hcrent  known  to  science.     However,  the  lu<c<;a<;o 
was  bundled  on  to  the  top  by  Our  Lady's  grace, 
without    dissolution    of    continuity;    the  "'lean- 
limbed   horses  were   induced   by  explosive   vol- 
leys of  sound  Tuscan  oaths  to  make  a  feeble  and 
spasmodic  effort;  and  bit  by  bit  the  sad  little 
cavalcade    began    slowly   to   ascend    the    inter- 
minable    hill   that    rises    by   long   loops    to   the 
platform  of  the   Prefettura. 

That  drive  was  the  gloomiest   Herminia  had 
ever  yet  taken.      Was  it  the  natural  fastidious- 
ness  of  her  condition,  she  wondered,  or  was  it 
really  the  dirt  and  foul  smells  of  the  place  that 
made  her  sickei   at  first  sight  of  the  wind-swept 
purlieus?     Perhaps  a  little  of  both;  for  in  dusty 
weather  Perugia   is  the   most   endless  town   to 
get   out   of   in    Italy;   and    its   capacity   for  the 
production    of   unpleasant    odors    is  unequalled 
no    doubt    from    the    Alps    to    Calabria.      As 
they  reached    the    bare   white    platform   at    the 
entry  to  the   upper  town,   where    Pope    Paul's 
grim  fortress  once  frowned  to  overawe  the  auda- 
cious souls  of  the  liberty-loving  Umbrians,  she 


I  12 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


m 


turned  mute  eyes  to  Alan  for  sympathy.  And 
then  for  the  fust  time  the  terrible  truth  broke 
over  her  that  Alan  was  n't  in  the  least  ilisap- 
pointed  or  disgusted;  he  knew  it  all  before;  he 
was  accustomed  to  it  and  liked  it!  As  for 
Alan,  he  misinterpreted  her  glance,  indeed, 
and  answered  with  that  sort  of  proprietary 
pride  we  all  of  us  assume  towards  a  place  we 
love,  and  are  showing  off  to  a  newcomer:  "  Yes, 
I  thought  you'd  like  this  view,  dearest;  isn't 
it  wonderful,  wonderful?  That's  Assisi  over 
yonder,  that  strange  white  town  that  clings  l)y 
its  eyelashes  to  the  sloping  hill-side;  and  those 
are  the  snowclad  heights  of  the  Gran  Sasso 
beyond;  and  that's  Montefalco  to  the  extreme 
right,  where  the  sunset  gleam  just  catches  the 
hill-top." 

His  words  struck  dumb  horror  into  Iler- 
minia's  soul.  Poor  child,  how  she  shrank  at 
it!  It  was  clear,  then,  instead  of  being  shocked 
and  disgusted,  Alan  positively  admired  ^his 
human  Sahara.  With  an  effort  she  gulped 
down  her  tears  and  her  sighs,  and  pretended 
to  look  with  interest  in  the  directions  he 
pointed.  S/w  could  see  nothing  in  it  all  but 
dry  hill-sides,  crowned  with  still  drier  towns; 
unimagined  stretches  of  sultry  suburb;  devour- 
ing wastes  of  rubbish  and  foul  immemorial 
kitchen-middens.      And   the   very  fact   that   for 


!■: 


TIIK   woman:   who    did. 


113 


Alan's  sake  she  could  n't  bear  to  say  so— see- 
in;;  how  pleascti  and  proiul  he  uas  of  I'cru^ia, 
as  if  it  had  been  built  from  his  own  (lcsi<^q'i  — 
made  the  bitterness  of  her  disapjiointnient  more 
difficult  to  endure.  She  would  have  ^nven  any- 
thin--  at  that  moment  for  an  ounce  of  human 
sympathy. 

She  had  to  learn  in  time  to  do  without  it. 
They    si)ent    that    ni-ht    at    the    comfortable 
hotel,    perhaps  the  best   in    Italy.      Next   niorn- 
in<r,    they   were    to   -o    huntin-  for  apartments 
in  the  town,  where  Alan  knew  of  a  suite  that 
would  exactly  suit  them.      After  dinner,  in  the 
twili-ht,    filled   with    his   artistic   joy   at    beini; 
back   in   Peru-ia,   his  beloved   Peru-ia,  he  took 
Herminia   out   for  a   stroll,    with   a    li-ht  wrap 
round  her  head,  on  the  terrace  of  the  Prefettura. 
The  air  blew  fresh  and  cool  now  with  a  certain 
mountain   sharpness;  for,   as  Alan   assured    her 
with  pride,   they  stood  seventeen   hundred  feet 
above    the    level    of    the    Mediterranean.      The 
moon  had  risen;  the   sunset    crjow  had    not  yet 
died  off  the  slopes  of  the  Assisi  hill-sides.      It 
streamed  throu<;h  the  perforated  belfry  of  San 
Domenico;   it  steeped   in   mse-color  the  slender 
and   turreted   shaft   of    Saii    Pietro,    "  Peru-ia's 
Pennon,"  the  Arrowhead  of   Umbria.      It  rcikled 
the  gaunt  houses  that   jut  out   upon  the'^spine 
of  the  I^orgo  hill   into  the  valley  of  the  Tiber. 

S 


114 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DH). 


m 


Beyond,  rose  shadowy  Apennines,  on  whose 
aerial  flanks  towns  and  villages  shone  out  clear 
in  the  mellow  moonliglit.  Far  away  on  their 
peaks  faint  specks  of  twinkling  fire  marked 
indistinguishable  sites  of  high  hill-top  castles. 

Alan  turned  to  her  proudly.  "Well,  what  do 
you  think  of  that.^  "  he  asked  with  truly  personal 
interest. 

Ilerminia  could  only  gasp  out  in  a  half  reluc- 
tant way,  "  It 's  a  beautiful  view,  Alan.  Beau- 
tiful; beautiful;  beautiful!" 

But  she  felt  conscious  to  herself  it  owed  its 
beauty  in  the  main  to  the  fact  that  the  twilight 
obscured  so  much  o."  it.  To-morrow  morning, 
the  bare  hills  would  stand  out  once  more  in  all 
their  pristine  bareness;  the  white  roads  would 
shine  forth  as  white  and  dusty  as  ever;  the 
obtrusive  rubbish  heapp  would  press  themselves 
at  every  turn  upon  eye  and  nostril.  She  hated 
the  place,  to  say  the  truth ;  it  was  a  terror  to 
her  to  think  she  had  to  stop  so  long  in  it. 

Most  famous  towns,  in  fact,  need  to  be  twice 
seen:  the  first  time  briefly  to  face  the  inev- 
itable disappointment  to  our  expectations;  the 
second  time,  at  leisure,  to  reconstruct  ond  ap- 
praise the  surviving  reality.  Imagination  so 
easily  beggars  performance.  Rome,  Cairo,  the 
Nile,  are  obvious  examples;  the  grand  excep- 
tions  are  Venice   and   Florence,  —  in  a   lesser 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DH). 


^^5 


decree,  Bruges,  Munich,  Pisa.  As  for  Umbria, 
'tis  a  poor  Lhin-;  our  own  Devon  snaps  her 
finrrers  at   it. 

Moreover,    to    say   the    truth,    Herminia   was 
too  fresh  to  Italy  to  appreciate  the  smaller  or 
second-rate    towns   at    their   real   value.      Even 
northerners   love    Florence  and  Venice  at    first 
sii^^ht;   those    take   their    hearts   by   storm;    but 
TVru-ia,  Siena,  Orvieto.  are  an   acquired   taste, 
like  olives   and    caviare,    and    it    takes    time   to 
acquire  it.      Alan  had   n(jt   made  due  allowance 
tor    this    psychological    truth    of    the    northern 
natures.     A  Celt  in  essence,  thorou-hly  Italian- 
ate  himself,  and  with  a  deep  love  for  the  pic- 
turesque, which  often   makes  men  insensible  to 
dirt   and  discomfort,   he   expected   to   Italianize 
Herminia  too  rapidly.      Herminia,  on  the  other 
hand,  belonged   mo.e  strictly  to  the  intellectual 
and  somewhat  inartistic  Kn-lish  type.      The  pic- 
turesque alone  did  not  suffice  f</r  her.      Clean- 
lincss  and  fresh  air  were  far  dearer  to  her  si.ul 
than   the   quaintest    street    corners,    the   oddest 
old  archways;  she  pined  in  Peru-ia  for  a  -reen 
Kn-lish  hillside. 

The  time,  too,  was  unfortunate,  after  no  rain 
for  weeks;    for   rainlessness,    besides   doublin- 
the  native  stock  of  dust,  brin-s  out  to  the  full 
the  ancestral    I<:truscan  odors  of  Peru-ia.      So 
when    next    morning     Herminia    founc?    herself 


ii6 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


installed  in  a  dinfjjy  flat,  in  a  morose  palazzo, 
in  the  main  street  of  the  city,  she  was  i^lad 
that  Alan  insisted  on  going  out  alone  to  make 
needful  purchases  of  groceries  and  provisions, 
because  it  gave  her  a  chance  of  flinging  herself 
on  her  bed  in  a  perfect  agony  of  distress  and 
disappointment,  and  having  a  good  cry,  all 
alone,  at  the  aspect  of  the  home  where  she 
was  to  pass  so  many  eventful  weeks  of  her 
existence. 

Dusty,  gusty  Perugia!  O  baby,  to  be  born 
for  the  freeing  of  woman,  was  it  here,  was  it 
here  you  must  draw  your  first  breath,  in  an  air 
polluted  by  the  vices  of  centuries ! 


hr  I 


it! 


|l'    9 


lili 


iJ! 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


117 


XI. 


Somewhat  later  in  the  day,  they  went  out  for  a 
stroll  thr(3ugh  the  town  together.  To  Ilerminii's 
great  relief,  Alan  never  even  noticed  she  had 
been  crying.  Man-like,  he  was  absorbed  in  his 
own  delight.  She  would  have  felt  herself  a 
traitor  if  Alan  had  discovered  it. 

"Which  way  shall  we  go.?"  she  asked  list, 
lessly,  with  a  glance  to  right  and  left,  as  they 
passed  beneath  the  sombre  Tuscan  gate  of  their 
palazzo. 

And  Alan  answered,  smiling,  "Why,  what 
does  it  matter.?  Which  way  you  like.  Every 
way  is  a  picture. " 

And  so  it  was,  Herminia  herself  was  fam  to 
admit,    in    a    pure    painter's   sense  that   didn't 
at  all  attract   her.      Lines   grouped    themselves 
again.st   the  sky  in    infinite  diversity.      Which 
ever  way  they  turned  quaint  old  walls  met  their 
eyes,  and  tumble-down  churches,  and  moulder. 
ing  towers,   and   mediaeval  palazzi  with  carA-ed 
doorways  or  rich  loggias.      Ikit  whichever  way 
they  turned   dusty  roads   too  confronted   them 


ii8 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


illimitable  stretches  of  oloomy  suburb,  unwhole- 
some airs,  sickeniu;;  sii^hts  and  sounds  and  per- 
fumes. Narrow  streets  swept,  darklinL!;,  under 
I)()inted  archways,  that  framed  distant  vistas  of 
spire  or  campanile,  silhouetted  against  the  s(did 
blue  sky  of  Italy.  The  crystal  hardness  of  that 
s:ii)phire  firmament  repelled  llerminia.  They 
passed  beneath  the  trium])hal  arch  of  Aui;"ustus 
with  its  Etruscan  mason-work,  its  Roman  deco- 
rations, and  round  the  antique  walls,  aL;iow  with 
tufted  gillyfloweis,  to  the  bare  Piazza  d'  Armi. 
A  cattle  fair  was  going  on  there;  and  Alan 
pointed  with  pleasure  to  the  curious  fact  that 
the  oxen  were  all  cream-colored,  —  the  famous 
white  steers  of  Clitumnus.  llerminia  knew  her 
Virgil  as  well  as  Alan  himself,  and  murmured 
half  aloud  the  sonorous  hexameter,  "  Romanos 
ad  templa  deum  duxere  triumphos. "  But  some- 
how, the  knowledge  that  these  were  indeed  the 
n">ilk-white  bullocks  of  Clitumnus  failed  amid 
so  much  dust  to  arouse  her  enthusiasm.  She 
would  have  been  better  pleased  just  then  with 
a  yellow   English  pi  imrose. 

They  clambered  down  the  terraced  ravines 
sometimes,  a  day  or  two  later,  to  arid  banks 
by  a  dry  torrent's  bed  where  Italian  primroses 
really  grew,  interspersed  with  tall  grape-hya- 
cinths, and  scented  violets,  and  glossy  cleft 
leaves  of  winter  aconite.      But  even  the  prim- 


Ifj 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DTD. 


119 


roses  were  not  the  same  thinj;  to  Herminia  as 
those   she   used   to   .leather   on   the  dewy  slopes 
of   the   Redlands;   they  were   so  chy  and   tlust- 
grimed,  and  the  path  by  the  torrent's  side  was 
so  distasteful  and  unsavory,      l^are  white  boui;hs 
of    twisted    fig-trees    depressed    her.      l^csides, 
these   hills  were   steep,  and    Herminia  felt   the 
climbing.      Nothing  in  city  or  suburbs  attracted 
her  soul.      Etruscan  Volumnii,  each   lolling   in 
white  travertine  on    the   sculptured    lid   of   his 
own   sarcophagus    urn,  and   all   duly   ranged    in 
the  twilight  of  their  tomb  at  their  spectral  ban- 
quct,  stirred  her  heart  but  feebly.      St.  Francis, 
Santa  Chiara,   fell    flat    on  her   English   fancy. 
But  as  for  Alan,  he  revelled  all  day  long  in  his 
native   element.      lie   sketched   every  morning, 
among  the  huddljd,   strangled    lanes;   sketched 
churches    and    monasteries,    and  portals    of  jia- 
lazzi;    sketched    mountains    clear-cut    in     that 
pellucid   air;   till    Herminia  wondered    how  he 
could  sit  so  long  in  the  broiling   sun  or  keen 
wind  on  those  bare  hillsides,  or  on  broken  brick 
parapets  in  those  noisome  byways.       Ihit  your 
born  sketcher  is  oblivious  of  all  on  earth  save  his 
chosen  art;  and  Alan  was  essentially  a  painter 
in  fibre,   diverted  by  pure  circumstance  into  a 
Chancery  practice. 

The   very  pictures    in    the    gallery   failed    to 
interest   Herminia,    she  knew  not   why.     Alan 


Hi 


I20 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


111^ 


III 


M\\\ 


could  n't  rouse  hc^  to  enthusiasm  over  his 
beloved  Buonfigli.  Those  naive  flaxen-haired 
angels,  with  sweetly  parted  lips,  and  baskets  of 
red  roses  in  their  delicate  hands,  own  sisters 
though  they  were  to  the  girlish  Lippis  she  had 
so  admired  at  Florence,  moved  her  heart  but 
faintly.  Try  as  she  might  to  like  them,  she 
responded  to  nothing  Perugian   in  any  way. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  or  two,  however,  Alan 
began  to  complain  of  constant  headache  He 
was  looking  very  well,  but  grew  uneasy  and 
restless.  Herminia  advised  him  to  give  up 
sketching  for  a  while,  those  small  streets  were 
so  close;  and  he  promised  to  yield  to  her  wishes 
in  the  matter.  Yet  he  grew  worse  next  day, 
so  that  Herminia,  much  alarmed,  called  in  an 
Italian  doctor.  Perugia  boasted  no  luiglish 
one.  The  Italian  felt  his  pulse,  and  listened  to 
his  symptoms.  "The  signore  came  here  from 
Florence .-'"  he  asked. 

"From  Plorence,"  Herminia  assented,  with  a 
sudder  sinking. 

The  doctor  protruded  his  lower  lip.  "This 
is  typhoid  fever,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "A 
very  bad  type.  It  has  been  assuming  such  a 
form  this  winter  at  Plorence." 

He  spoke  the  plain  truth.  Twenty-one  days 
before  in  his  bedroom  at  the  hotel  in  Florence, 
Alan  had  drunk  a  single  glass  of  water  from  the 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


121 


polluted  springs  that  supply  in  part  the  Tuscan 
metropolis.  For  twent>-one  days  those  victo- 
rious  microbes  had  brooded  in  silence  in  his  poi- 
soned arteries.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  they 
swarmed  and  declared  themselves.  He  was  ill 
with  an  aggravated  form  of  the  most  deadly 
disease  that  still  stalks  unchecked  through 
unsanitated  Europe. 

Herminia's  alarm  was  painful.  Alan  grew 
rapidly  worse.  In  two  days  he  was  so  ilTthat 
she  thought  it  her  duty  to  telegraph  at  once  to 
Dr.  Merrick,  in  London  :  "Alan's  life  in  danger. 
Serious  attack  of  Florentine  typhoid.  ItaHan 
doctor  despairs  of  his  life.  May  not  last  till 
to-morrow.  — Hermixia  Barton." 

Later  on  in  the  day  came  a  telegram  in  reply; 
it  was  addressed  to  Alan:  ''Am  on  my  way  out 
by  through  train  to  attend  you.  ]^ut  as  a  mat- 
ter of  duty,  marry  the  girl  at  once,  and  legiti- 
matize your  child  while  the  chance  remains  to 
you." 

It  was  kindly  meant  in  its  way.  It  was  a 
message  of  love,  of  forgiveness,  of  generosity, 
such  as  Herminia  would  hardly  have  expected 
from  so  stern  a  man  as  Alan  had  always  repre- 
sented his  father  to  be  to  her.  But  at  moments 
of  unexpected  danger  angry  feelings  between 
father  and  son  are  often  forgotten,  and  blood 
unexpectedly  proves  itself  thicker  than  water. 


122 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


I  ill 


'^ct  even  so  licrminia  couldn't  iK'ar  tC)  show 
the  telegram  to  Alan.  She  feared  lest  in  this 
extremity,  his  mind  weakened  l)y  disease,  he 
mi^ht  wish  to  take  his  fatlicr's  advice,  and 
prove  untrue  to  tlieir  common  principles.  In 
that  case,  woman  that  she  was,  she  hardly  knew 
how  she  could  resist  what  mii^ht  be  only  too 
probably  his  dyini;  wishes.  Still,  she  nerved 
herself  for  this  trial  of  faitli,  and  went  through 
with  it  bravely.  Alan,  thou^di  sinking,  was  still 
conscious  at  moments;  in  one  such  interval, 
with  nn  effort  to  be  calm,  she  showed  him  his 
father's  telegram.  Tears  rose  into  his  eyes. 
"I  didn't  ex})ect  him  to  come,"  he  said. 
"This  is  all  very  good  of  him."  Then,  after  a 
moment,  he  added,  "Would  you  wijsli  me  in  this 
extremity,  Hermy,  to  do  as  he  advises.''" 

Herminia  bent  over  him  with  fierce  tears  on 
her  eyelids.  "O  Alan  darling,"  she  cried, 
"you  mustn't  die!  You  mustn't  leave  me: 
What  could  I  do  without  you.-'  oh,  my  darling, 
my  darling!  Hut  don't  think  of  me  now. 
Don't  think  of  the  dear  baby.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  disturb  you  even  by  showing  you  the  tele- 
gram. For  your  sake,  Alan,  I  '11  be  calm,  — 
I  '11  be  calm.  But  oh,  not  for  worlds,  —  not  for 
worlds,  — even  so,  w^ould  1  turn  m\'  back  on  the 
principles  we  would  both  risk  our  lives  for!" 

Alan    smiled    a   faint    smile.      "Mermy,"   ho 


THE   VVOMAX   WHO    DID. 


123 


said  slowly,  ''I  love  you  all  the  more  for  it. 
You  're  as  brave  as  a  lion.  Oh,  how  much  I 
have  learned  from  you  !  " 

All    that     niL,dit    and     next    day    Ilerminia 
watched    by   his    bedside.      Now   and   a-ain    he 
was  conscious.      lUit   for   the  most    part^  he  lay 
still,    in   a  comatose   condition,  with   eyes    half 
closed,    the   whites   showini,^    through    the    lids, 
neither  muvin-  nor  speaking.      All  the  time  he 
grew  worse  steadily.      As   she   sat    by  his   bed- 
side, Herminia  began  to  realize  the  utter  loneli- 
ness of  her  position.      That  Alan  might  die  was 
the  one  element  in  the  situation  she  had  never 
even  dreamt  of.      No  wife  culd  l.,ve  her  hus- 
band with  more  perfect  devotion  than  Ilerminia 
loved  Alan.      She  hung  upon  every  breath  with 
unspeakable  suspense  and  unutterable  affection. 
But  the  Italian  doctor  held  out  little  hope  of  a 
rally.      Herminia  sat  there,  fixed  to  the  spot,  a 
white  marble  statue. 

Late  next  evening  Dr.  Merrick  reached 
Perugia.  He  drove  straight  from  the  station 
to  the  dingy  flat  in  the  morose  palazzo.  At  the 
door  of  his  son's  room,  Herminia  met  him, 
clad  from  head  to  foot  in  white,  as  she  had  sat 
by  the  bedside.  Tears  blinded  her  eyes;  her 
face  was  wan;   her  mien  terrildy  haggard.' 

"And   my  son.?"   the   Doctor  aske^c?,    with   a 
hushed  breath  of  terror. 


nil 

m 


!<-  I  J 


124 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


"  He  died  half  an  hour  ago,"  Herminia  gasped 
out  with  an  effort. 

"]5ut  he  married  you  before  he  died?"  the 
father  cried,  in  a  tone  of  profound  emotion. 
"He  did  justice  to  his  child?  —  he  repaired  his 
evil?" 

"He  did  not,"  Herminia  answered,  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice.  "He  was  stanch  to 
the  end  to  his  lifelong  principles." 

"Why  not?"  the  father  asked,  staggering. 
"Did  he  see  my  telegram?" 

"Yes,"  Herminia  answered,  numb  with  grief, 
yet  too  proud  to  prevaricate.  "  Ikit  1  advised 
him  to  stand  firm ;  and  he  abode  by  my 
decision." 

The  father  waved  her  aside  with  his  hands 
imperiously.  "Then  I  have  done  with  you," 
he  exclaimed.  "  I  am  sorry  to  seem  harsh  to 
you  at  such  a  moment.  But  it  is  your  own 
doing.  You  leave  me  no  choice.  You  have 
no  right  any  longer  in  my  son's  apartments." 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


135 


XII. 


No  position  in  life  is  more  terrible  to  face  than 
that  of  the  widowed   mother  left  alone    in    the 
world  with  her  unborn  baby.      Wiien  the  child 
IS    her    first   one, —when,    besides  the   natural 
horror  and  agony  of  the  situation,  she  has  also 
to  confront  the  unknown  dan-ers  of  that  new 
and   dreaded    experience,  -  her    pli^dit   is    still 
more  pitiable.     But  when  the  widowed  mother 
IS  one  who  has  never  been  a  wife,-  when  in  addi- 
tion to  all  these  pan-s  of  bereavement  and  fear 
she  has  further  to  face  the  contempt  and  hos^ 
ihty  of  a  sneering  world,  as  Ilerminia  had  to 
tace  It,  -  then,    indeed,   her  lot  becomes  well- 
nigh  insupportable;  it  is  almost  more  than  hu- 
man nature  can  bear  up  against.     So  Herminia 
ound    It.      She  might  have  died   of  grief   and 
lonehness  then  and  there,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
sudden  and  unexpected  rousing  of  her  spirit  of 
opposition  by  Dr.  Merrick's  words.      That  crud 
speech  gave  her  the  will  and  the  power  to  live 
It  saved  her  from  madness.      She  drew  herself 
up  at  once  with  a.;  injured  woman's  pride   and 


126 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


facinf:^  her  dead  Alan's  father  with  a  quick 
access  of  cnerp;y,  — 

"You  are  wrongs"  she  said,  stilling  her  heart 
with  one  hand.  "  Tiiese  rooms  are  mine,  -my 
own,  not  dear  Alan's.  I  eni;a.i;ed  them  myself, 
for  my  own  use,  and  in  my  own  name,  as 
Ilerminia  Barton.  \'<)U  can  stay  here  if  you 
wish.  I  will  not  imitate  your  cruelty  l)y  re- 
fusinj^^  you  access  t(j  them;  but  if  you  remain 
here,  you  must  treat  me  at  least  with  the  re- 
spect that  belongs  to  my  great  sorrow,  and 
with  the  cinirtesy  due  to  an   I'^.nglish   lady." 

Her  words  half  cowed  him.  He  subsided  at 
once.  In  silence  he  stei)i)ed  over  to  his  dead 
son's  bedside.  Mechanically,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, Ilerminia  went  on  with  the  needful  })rep- 
arations  for  Alan's  funeral.  Her  grief  was  so  in- 
tense that  she  bore  up  as  if  stunned  ;  she  did  what 
was  e\|)ected  of  her  without  thinking  or  feeling 
it.  Dr.  Merrick  stopped  on  at  Perugia  till  his 
son  was  buried.  He  was  frigidly  polite  mean- 
while to  Ilerminia.  Deeply  a.  he  differed  from 
her,  the  dignity  and  prid*.  with  which  she  had 
answered  his  first  insult  impressed  him  with  a 
certain  sense  of  respect  for  her  character,  and 
made  him  feel  at  least  he  could  not  be  rude 
to  her  with  impunity.  He  remained  at  the 
hotel,  and  superintended  the  arrangements  for 
his  son's  funeral-     As  soon   as  that  was  over, 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    mi). 


127 


i 


and  PIcrminia  had  seen  the  coffin  lowered  into 
the  <,^rave  of  all  her  hoi)es,  save  one,  she  re- 
turnee' to  her  rooms  alone,  —  mcjre  utterly  alone 
than  she  had  ever  iniaL;ined  any  human  bein<'- 
could  feel  in  a  citytul  of  fellow-creatures. 

She  must  shape  her  i)ath  now  for  herself 
without  Alan's  aid,  without  Alan's  advice. 
And  her  bitterest  enemies  in  life,  she  felt  sure, 
W(Hild  henceforth  be  those  of  Alan's  house- 
hold. 

Vet,    lonely  as  she  was,  she  determined  from 
the  first  moment    no    course  was    left   open   for 
her  save  to   remain  at   I'erugia.      She  couldn't 
go  away  so  soon  from   the  spot  where  Alan  was 
laid,  —from   all    that   remained   to  her   now    of 
Alan.      Except    his     unborn     baby, —the    baby 
that  was  half  hi.s,  half  hers,  —the  baby  predes- 
tined   to    regenerate    humanity.      Oh,    how   she 
longed    to   fonrlle    it!      livery   arrangement    had 
been   made    in    Perugia   for   the   baby's   advent; 
she  would  stand  by  those  arrangements  still,  in 
her  shuttered  room,  partly  because  she  could  n't 
tear    herself    away    from    Alan's    grave;    partly 
because    she    had    no    heart    left    to    make    the 
necessary  arrangements   elsewhere;    but   partly 
also  because  she  wished  yXlan's  baby  to  be  born 
near   Alan's   side,   where   she   could   present    it 
after  birth  at  its  father's  last  resting-place.      It 
was    a    fanciful    wish,    she    knew,    based     ui)on 


121 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


:i 


1 


ideas 
ancc 


she  had  \onui  since   discard-jd;   but  these 


StKJ 


sentiments  ec 


ho    1 


owj:  in   our  hearts 


thev  die  hard  witli    us  all,    and  most  hard  with 


n 


-y 

women. 

She   would   stop   on   at    Perugia,    and   die   i 
giving  birth  to  Alan's  baby;  or  else  live  to  be 
father  and  mother  in  one  to  it. 

So  she  stopped  and  waited  ;  waited  in  tremu« 
lous  fear,  half  longing  for  death,  half  eager  not 
to  leave  that  sacred  baby  an  orphan.  It  would 
be  Alan's  baby,  and  might  grow  in  time  to  be 
the  world's  true  savior.  For,  now  that  Alan 
was  dead,  no  hope  on  earth  seemed  too  great  to 
cherish  for  Alan's  child  within  her. 

And  oh,  that  it  might  be  a  girl,  to  take  up 
the  task  she  herself  had  failed   in! 

The  day  after  the  funeral.  Dr.  Merrick  called 
in  for  the  last  time  at  her  lodgings.  He  brought 
in  his  hand  a  legal dooking  paper,  which  he  had 
found  in  searching  among  Alan's  effects,  for 
he  had  carried  them  off  to  his  hotel,  leaving 
not  even  a  memento  of  her  ill-starred  love  to 
Herminia.  "This  may  interest  you,"  he  said 
dryly.  "You  will  see  at  once  it  is  in  my  son's 
handwriting." 

llerminia  glanced  over  it  with  a  burning  face. 
It  was  a  will  in  her  favor,  leaving  absolutely 
everything  of  which  he  died  possessed  "to  my 
beloved  friend,  llermiina  Harton." 


THE   WOMAN    WOO    DID.  ,39 

Herminia  had  hanlly  the  means  to  keep  her- 
self ahve  till  her  bal,y  was  born;  but  in  those 
first  fierce  hours  of  ineffable  bereavement  what 
question    of    money   could    interest    her   in  any 
way?     She    stared    at     it,    stupefied.      It    only 
ple^ased  her  to  think  Alan  had  not  forgotten  her 
I  he  sordid   moneyed  class  of   Kn-land   will 
haggle  over  bequests  and  settlements  and  <!ow. 
nes  on   their   bridal   eve,    or   by  the    coffins  of 
the.r  dead.     Herminia    had    no    such    ignoble 
poss.biht.es.     How  could  he  speak  of  it 'in  her 
presence  at  a  moment  like  this.'     Mow  obtrude 
such  themes  on  her  august  sorrow' 

"This  was  drawn  up,"  Dr.  Merrick  went  on 
in  h,s  austere  voice,  "the  very  day  before  my 
late  son  left  London.  Hut,  of  course,  you  will 
have  observed  it  was  never  executed  " 

And  in  point  of  fact  Herminia  now  listlessly 
noted  that  ,t  lacked  Alan's  signature. 

ihat   makes   it,    I   „eed   hardly  say    of   no 

e.al  ,..aU,e"  the  father  went  on!  wilh  frigid 
calm.  I  bnng  ,t  rotmd  merely  to  show  you 
that  my  son  nUended  to  act  honorably  towards 
you.  As  things  stand,  of  course,  he  has  die.l 
m  estate  and  his  property,  such  as  it  is,  will 
follow  the  ordinary  law  of  succession.  T'or 
your  sake,  I  am  sorry  it  should  be  so;  I  couhl 
have  wished  it  otherwise.  However,  I  need  not 
remind  you  "  _  he  picked  his  phrases  carefr.ily 

9 


I30 


THE   Vv'OMAN    WHO    DTD. 


with  icy  precision  —  "that  under  circumstances 
like  these  neither  you  nor  your  child  have  any 
claim  wliatsoever  uiK)n  my  son's  estate.  Nor 
have  I  any  right  over  it.  Still"  —  he  paused 
for  a  second,  and  that  incisive  mouth  strove  to 
grow  gentle,  while  Herminia  hot  with  shame, 
confronted  him  helplessly  —  "I  sympathize 
with  your  jiosition,  and  do  not  forget  it  was 
Alan  who  brought  you  here.  Therefore,  as 
an  act  of  courtesy  to  a  lady  in  whom  he  was 
personally  interested  .  .  .  if  a  slight  gift  of  fifty 
pounds  would  be  of  immediate  service  to  you 
in  your  present  situation,  why,  I  think,  with 
the  approbation  of  his  brothers  and  sisters,  who 
of  course  inherit  —  " 

Herminia  turned  upon  him  like  a  wounded 
creature.  She  thanked  the  blind  caprice  which 
governs  the  universe  that  it  gave  her  strength 
at  that  moment  to  bear  up  under  his  insult. 
With  one  angry  hand  she  waved  dead  Alan's 
father  inexorably  to  the  door.  "Go,"  she  said 
simply.  "  How  dare  you  .-*  how  dare  you  .-*  Leave 
my  rooms  this  instant." 

Dr.  Merrick  still  irresolute,  and  an.xious  in 
his  way  to  do  what  he  thought  was  just,  drew 
a  roll  of  Italian  bank  notes  from  hi.i  waistcoat 
jiocket,  and  laid  them  on  the  table.  "  You  may 
find  these  useful,"  he  said,  as  he  retreated 
awkwardly. 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


131 


Hcrniinia   turned    upon    him    with    the    just 
wrath  of  a  <,Tcat  nature  outra-cd.      "  Take  them 
up        fe    cried    fiercely.      ''Don't    pollute    my 
table.        Then,  as  often   happens  to  all  of  us  in 
moments  of  deep   emotion,  a  Scri])ture  phrase 
long    hallowed     by    childish    familiarity      rose 
si)ontaneous    to    her    lips.      "Take    them    uu^^ 
she     cried     again.      "Thy    n.oney     perish    with 
thee! 

Or.  IMerrick  took  them  up,  and  slank  noise- 
lessly trom  the  room,  murmuring  as  he  went 
some  inarticulate  words  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  only  desired  to  serve  her.  As  soon  as  he 
was  gone,  Ilerminia's  nerve  gave  way.  She 
flung  herself  into  a  chair,  and  sobbed  long  and 
violently. 

It  was   no  time  for  her,   of  course,   to  think 
about    money.      Sore    pressed    as   she  was,    she 
had  just  enough   left  to  see  her  safely  throu^di 
her  confinement.      Man    had    given    her   a   few 
pounds    for    housekeeping   when    they   first   .,,t 
into  the  rooms,  and  those  she  kept;  they  were 
hers;    she    had    not    the    slightest    impulse    to 
restore   them    to   his   family.      All    he   left   was 
hers  too,   by  natural  justice;  and  she  knew  it 
He   had  drawn    up   his   will,    attestation    clause 
and  all,    with    even    the  very   date    inserted    in 
pencil,    the    day    before    they    quitted     London 
together;  but  finding  no  friends  at   the  club  to 


132 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


!   » 


witness  it,  he  had  put  off  executini;  it;  and  so 
had  left  Ilerminia  entirely  to  her  own  resources. 
In  the  delirium  of  his  fever,  the  subject  never 
occurred  to  him.  Hut  no  doubt  existed  as  to 
the  nature  of  his  last  wishes;  and  if  Ilerminia 
herself  had  been  placed  in  a  similar  position 
to  that  of  the  Merrick  family,  she  would  have 
scorned  to  take  so  mean  an  advantage  of  the 
mere  lei^al  omission. 

l^y  this  time,  of  course,  the  story  of  her  fate 
had  got  across  to  l^ngland,  and  was  being  read 
and  retold  by  each  man  or  woman  after  his  or 
her  own  fashion.  The  papers  mentioned  it,  as 
seen  through  the  optic  lens  of  the  society  jour- 
nalist, with  what  stiange  refraction.  ]\I(Kst  of 
them  descried  in  j)oor  Ilerminia' s  tragedy  noth- 
ing but  material  for  a  smile,  a  sneer,  or  an 
innuendo.  The  Dean  himself  wro'e  to  her,  a 
l)iteous,  paternal  note,  wdiich  bowed  her  down 
more  than  ever  in  her  abyss  of  sorrow.  He 
wrote  as  a  dean  must,  —  gT"ay  hairs  brought 
down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave;  infinite  mercy 
of  Heaven;  still  room  for  repentance;  but  f)h, 
to  keep  away  from  her  \nivv  young  sisters!  Iler- 
minia answered  with  dignity,  but  with  profound 
emotion.  She  knew  her  father  too  well  not  to 
sympathize  greatly  with  his  natural  view  of  so 
fatal  an  episode. 

So   she   sto))ped  on   alone   for  her  dark  hour 


i 


THE  WOMAN  wiK)  nin. 


'.',3 


>n  Pcri,g,a.     Sho  stopped  „n,  mucn.lod  by  any 
save  unknown  Italians  whose  ton.^^ne  she  hardly 
spoke,  and  unchecred   by  a  friendly  voice  at  the 
deepest   n,on,ent   of  trouble  in  a  woman's  his- 
tory     Often   for  hours  to,=,.ether  she  sat  alone 
n  the  cathedral,  ,azin.,  up  at  a  certain  mild- 
featured    Madonna,    enshrined   above  an    altar. 
Ihe  unwedded  wulow  seemed  to  Kain  some  cont- 
ort from  the  pitying  face  of  the  nuiiden  mother 
Lvery  day    while   still   she   could,    she   walked 
out  along  the  shadeless  suburban  road  to  Alan's 
Srave    m   the   parched    and    crowded    cemetery 
Women  tru.lgins  along  with  crammed  creels  ,,n 
the.r  backs  turned  round  to  stare  at  her.      W'hen 

towa'i-ds  s"  'r^"-^''^'  «he  sat  at  her  window 
owaul.    San   Luca  and  gazed  at   it.      There  lay 
the  only  fr.end  she  possessed  in  I'erugia,  per 
naixs  in  the  universe. 

The   dreadcl   day   arrive<l   at    last,    an<l    her 

srong   constitution   enabled    Herminia  to  live 

Imnigh    ,t.      Her  baby  was   born,   a   beautiful 

ttle  g,rl,  soft,  delicate,  wonderful,  with  Alan 

b  uc  eyes,  and  its  mother's  complexion.     Those 

o.sy   feet    saved    Herminia.     As    she   clasped 

c.,    in  her    hands -tiny  feet,   tender  feci - 


fut 


baby,  Alan's  baby,   the  bal 


urc,  the  baby  that  was  destined 


>y  with  a 


lumani 


ty- 


to  re< 


:cnerate 


r 


w^ 


134 


THE   WOMAN  WHO    DID. 


So  warm!     So  small!     Alan's  soul  and   her 
own,  mysteriously  blended. 

Still,  even  so,  she  couldn't  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  give  any  joyous  name  to  dead  Alan's 
child.  Dolores  she  called  it,  at  Alan's  grave. 
In  sorrow  had  she  borne  it;  its  true  name  was 
Dolores. 


y 


« 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


135 


XIII. 


It  was  a  changed  London   to  which   Herniinia 
returned.      She  was  homeless,  penniless,  friend- 
less.     Above  all  she  was  dcciasscc.      The  world 
that   had   known    her    now   knew  her   no   more. 
Women    who    had    smothered'  her    with    their 
Judas   kisses    passed   her  by  in   their    victorias 
with  a  stony  stare.      Even  men  pretended  to  be 
looking  the  other  way,  or  crossed  the  street  t(» 
avoid   the  necessity  for   recognizing   her.      "So 
awkward  to  be  mixed  up  with  such  a  scandal!  " 
She  hardly  knew  as  yet  herself  how  much  her 
world    was    changed   indeed;    for    had    she    not 
come  back  to  it,  the  mother  of  an  illegitimate 
daughter.?     But  she  began  to  suspect  it  the  very 
first    day  when   she   arrived   at    Charing   Cross, 
clad  in  a  plain   black  dress,  with    her^xaby  at 
her  bosom.      Her  fu-st  task  was   to  hnd   rooms- 
her  next   to   find  a  livelihood.      lu'en   the   first 
involved   no   small    relapse   from    the   purity   of 
her  principles.      After  long  hours  of  vain  hunt- 
ing, she  found  at   last  she  could  only  -et   lothr. 


■f  :, 


i 


Hi! 


136 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


1| 

III  ! 


inc;s  for  herself  and  Alan's  child  by  tcllin.c:;  a 
virtual  lie,  aL;ainst  which  her  soul  revolted. 
She  was  forced  to  describe  herself  as  Mrs. 
Barton;  she  must  allow  her  landlady  to  sup- 
pose she  was  really  a  widow.  Woe  unto  you, 
scribes  and  hypocrites!  in  all  Christian  Lon- 
don Miss  l^arton  and  her  baby  could  never 
have  found  a  "respectable"  room  in  which  to 
lay  their  heads.  So  she  yielded  to  the  inev- 
itable, and  took  iwo  tiny  attics  in  a  small 
street  off  the  lulgware  Road  at  a  moderate 
rental.  To  live  alone  in  a  cottage  as  of  yore 
would  have  been  impossible  now  she  had  a 
baby  of  her  own  to  tend,  besides  earning  her 
livelihood;  she  fell  back  regretfully  on  the 
lesser  evil  of  lodgings. 

To  earn  her  livelihood  was  a  hard  task,  though 
Herminia's  indomitable  energy  rode  down  all 
obstacles.  Teaching,  of  course,  was  now  quite 
out  of  the  question;  no  English  parent  could 
intrust  the  education  of  his  daughters  to  the 
hands  of  a  woman  who  has  dared  and  suffered 
much,  for  conscience'  sake,  in  the  cause  of 
freedom  for  herself  and  her  sisters.  But  even 
before  llerminia  went  away  to  Perugia,  she  had 
acquired  some  small  journalistic  connection; 
and  now,  in  her  hour  of  need,  she  found  not 
a  few  of  the  journalistic  leaders  by  no  means 
unwilling    to    sympathize    and    fraternize    with 


THE    \V()>rAN    WHO    DH). 


137 


her.     To  be  sure,  they  did  n't  ask  the  free  wo- 
man  to  their  homes,  nor  invite  her  to  meet  their 
own  women:  — even    an  enlightened    journalist 
must  draw  a  line   somewhere  in   the  matter  of 
society;    but   they   understood   and    appreciated 
the  sincerity  of  her  motives,  and  did  what  they 
could   to  find    empluyment  and    salary  for   her. 
Herminia    was    an     honest    and    conscientious 
worker;    she    knew  much    about    many  thinL;s; 
and   nature  had  gifted  her  with   the  instinct?VL' 
power  of  writing   clearly  and    unaffectedly  the 
Knglish  language.      So  she  got  on  with  editors. 
Who  could  resist,  indeed,  the  pathetic  charm  of 
that  girlish  figure,    simply  clad   in   unobtrusive 
black,    and   sanctified    in    every    feature   of    the 
shrinking  face  by  the  beauty  of  sorrow?     Not  the 
men  who  stand  at  the  head   of  the  one  Knglisu 
profession  which  more  than   all   others    has  es- 
caped the  leprous  taint  of  that   national   moral 
blight  that  calls  itself  ''respectability." 

In  a  slow  and  tentative  way,  then.  ITerminia 
crept  back  into  unrecognizecl  recognition.  It 
was  ail  she  needed.  Companionship  she  liked  • 
she  hated  society.  That  mart  was  odious  to' 
her  where  women  barter  their  bodies  for  a  title, 
a  carriage,  a  i)lace  at  the  head  of  some  rich 
man's  table.  Bohemia  sufficed  her.  Her  ter- 
rible widowhood,  too,  was  rondered  less  terrible 
to  her  by  the  care  of  her  little  one.      I5abblin- 


138 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


ill 


lips,  pattering  feet,  made  heaven  in  her  attic. 
Every  good  woman  is  l)y  nature  a  mother,  and 
finds  best  in  maternity  her  social  and  moral 
salvation.  She  shall  be  saved  in  child-bearing. 
Ilerminia  was  far  removed  indeed  from  that  blat- 
ant and  decadent  sect  of  "  advanced  women  "  who 
talk  as  though  motherhood  were  a  disgrace  and 
a  burden,  instead  of  being,  as  it  is,  the  full 
realization  of  woman's  faculties,  the  natural 
outlet  for  woman's  wealth  of  emotion.  She 
knew  that  to  be  a  mother  is  the  best  privilege 
of  her  sex,  a  privilege  of  which  unholy  man- 
made  institutions  now  consi)ire  to  deprive  half 
the  finest  and  noblest  women  in  our  civilized  com 
munities.  Widowed  as  she  was,  she  still  pitied 
the  unhappy  beings  doomed  to  the  cramped  life 
and  dwarfed  heart  of  the  old  maid  ;  pitied  them  as 
sincerely  as  she  despised  those  unhealthy  souls 
who  would  make  of  celibacy,  wedded  or  un- 
wedded,  a  sort  of  anti-natural  religion  for  women. 
Alan's  death,  however,  had  left  Herminia's  ship 
rudderless.  Her  mission  had  failed.  That  she 
acknowledired  herself.  She  lived  now  for 
Dolores.  The  child  to  whom  she  had  given 
the  noble  birthright  of  libertv  was  destined 
from  her  cradle  to  the  apostolate  of  women. 
Alone  of  her  sex,  she  would  start  in  life  eman- 
cipated. While  others  must  say,  "  W^ith  a  great 
sum   obtained   I    this    freedom,"   Dolores    could 


HE    WOMAN'    WHO    DIP. 


139 


answer  with  Paul,  "  JUit  I  was  free  born. "     That 
was  no  mean  herita"-e. 

Gradually  llerminia  got  work   to   her  mind- 
work  enough  to  support  her  in  the  modest  way 
that  sufficed  her  small  wants    .r  herself  and  her 
baby.      In  London,  given  time  enough,  you  can 
live  down  anything,  perhaps  even  the  unspeak- 
able sin  of  having  struck   a    righteous   blow  in 
the    interest   of   women.      And   day   by  day    as 
months  and  years  went  on,    Herminia  felt 'she 
was  living  down  the  disgrace  of  having  obeyed 
an    enlightened    conscience.      She    even    found 
mends.      Dear  old  Miss  Smith-Waters  used  to 
creep  round  by  night,  like  Nicodemus- respect- 
ability would  not   have  allowed   her  to  perform 
that    Christian  act   in  open    daylight,-and  sit 
for  an   hour    or    tw..    with    her    dear  misguided 
Ilcrminia.      Miss  Smith-Waters  prayed  nightly 
for   Merminia's  ''conversion,"  yet   not   without 
an  uncomfortable  suspidnn,,  after  all,  that  Her- 
minia had  very  little  indeed  to  be  "converted" 
from.      Other  people  also  got   to  know  her  bv 
degrees;  an  editor's  wife ;  a  kind   literary  host- 
ess;   some   socialistic    ladies   who    liked    to    be 
advanced;"    a  friendly   family  or  two  of    the 
Bohemian   literary  or  artistic  pattern.      Amon:^ 
them   J  ferminia  learned   to  be  as  happy  in  time 
as  she  could  ever  again  be,  now  she  had  lost  her 
Alan.      She  was  Mrs.  Ihrton  to  them  all;  that 


140 


THK    WOMAN'   WHO    DTD. 


lie  she  found  it  practieally  impossible  to  fi^ht 
aLrainst.  I'^vcn  tlie  J^ohcmians  refused  to  let 
their  children  ask  after  Aliss  J^arton's  baby. 

So  wrapt  in  vile  f.ilsehuods  and  conventions 
are  we.  So  far  have  we  travelled  from  the 
pristine  realities  of  truth  anc|  purity.  We  lie 
to  our  children —  in  the  interests  of  morality. 

After  a  time,  in  the  intervals  between  doing 
her  journalistic  work  and  nursinu;  Alan's  baby, 
Herminia  f(JLind  leisure  to  write  a  novel.  It 
was  seriously  meant,  of  course,  but  still  it  was 
a  novel.  That  is  every  woman's  native  idea  of 
literature.  It  reflects  the  relatively  larger  part 
which  the  social  life  plays  in  the  existence  of 
women.  If  a  man  tells  you  he  wants  to  write  a 
book,  nine  times  out  of  ten  he  means  a  treatise 
or  argument  on  some  subject  that  interests 
him.  I^^ven  the  men  who  take  in  the  end  to 
writing  novels  have  generally  begun  with  other 
aims  and  other  aspirations,  and  have  only  fallen 
back  upon  the  art  of  fiction  in  the  last  resort 
as  a  means  of  livelihood.  But  when  a  woman 
tells  you  she  wants  to  write  a  book,  nine  times 
out  of  ten  she  means  she  wants  to  write  a  novel. 
For  that  task  nature  has  most  often  endowed 
her  richly.  Her  quicker  intuitions,  her  keener 
interest  in  social  life,  her  deeper  insight  into 
the  passing  play  of  emotions  and  of  motives, 
enable  her  to  paint  well  the  complex  interrela- 


Tiin  woMAx  \vi[(-i  run. 


141 


tions   of   cvcry.<l,,y  existence.       So    Herminia, 
like  the  rest,  wrote  her  ou-ii  pet  novel. 

By  the  time  her  baby  was  ei.^hteen   month.s 
ohl,  she  had  finished  it.      It  w.as  blankly  pessi- 
m.st.c.  of  course.     lilank  pessimism  is   the  one 
creed  possible  for  all  save  fools.      To  hold  .any 
other   ,s   to   curl   yourself   up  selfi.shly   in    you- 
o^yn    easy   chair,    and     s.ay    to    your  .soul     •'() 
soul,   eat    and    drink;    ()    soul,     make    merry 
Caroirse  thy  till.     F^cnore  the  maimed   lives    the 
str.cken  he.acLs  and  seared   hearts,  tl,e  re.ldened 
fa^,^^s^and    ravenin,^^  claws   of  nature  all   round 
thee.        lessimism   is  ,sympatl,y.      Optimism   is 
selhshness.      The  optimist  fr.lds  his  snnvj;  hands 
on    m  ample  knees,  an.l  murmurs  contente.lly. 
The  Lord  b.as  wille.l  it;"  "There  mu.st  alw.ays 
bench  and  poor;"   "Nature  has,  .after  all,  her 
great    law   of    compensation."     The    pessimist 
knows  well  self-deception   like  th.at   is  either  a 
fraud  or  a  blin.l,  and  reco^nizins  tho  seething 
mass  of  m.sery  at  his  doors  ^ives  what  he  can^ 
-his  p,ty,  or,  where  possible,  his   faint  aid,   in 
re,h-ess,ns  the  crying  inequalities  and  injustices 
ot  man  or  nature. 

All  honest  art  is  therefore  of  necessity  pes- 
s'nmt.c.  I  erminia's  ron,ance  was  s.-metlin, 
more  than  that.  It  was  the  dcspairin,.  heart: 
cry  of  a  .soul  in  revolt.  It  embodied  the cvperi- 
ences  and  bel.efs  and  sentiments  of  a  martyred 


Nr 


142 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DTD. 


5^<Jv 


'r 


woman.  It  enclosed  a  lofty  ethical  purpose. 
She  wrote  it  with  fiery  ener^^y,  for  her  baby's 
sake,  on  waste  scraps  of  paper,  at  stray  moments 
snatched  from  endless  other  en,L;a.L;ements.  And 
as  soon  as  it  was  finisned,  she  sent  it  in  fear 
and   trem])lin.L;  to  o   ]Hd)lisher. 

She  liad  chosen  her  man  well,  lie  was  a 
thinker  himself,  and  he  sympathized  with 
thinkers.  ThouL:;h  donbtful  as  to  the  venture, 
he  took  all  the  risk  liimself  with  that  <^^ener- 
osity  one  so  often  sees  in  the  best-abused  of 
professions.  In  three  or  four  weeks'  time  "A 
Woman's  World  "  came  out,  and  Ilerminia 
waited  in  breatlfiess  anxiety  for  the  verdict  of 
tlie  reviewers. 

For  nearly  a  month  she  waited  in  vain. 
Then,  one  T'riday,  as  she  was  return ini:;  by 
underground  railway  from  the  Strand  to  ICdge- 
ware  Road,  with  Dolores  in  her  arms,  her  eye 
fell  as  she  passed  upon  the  d i splay d)i  11  of  the 
"Spectator."  Sixpence  was  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  Ilerminia;  but  bang  it  went  reck- 
lessly when  she  saw  among  the  contents  an 
article  headed,  "A  Very  Advanced  Woman's 
Novel."  She  felt  sure  it  must  be  hers,  and  she 
was  not  mistaken.  breathlessly  she  ran  over 
tliat  first  estimate  of  her  v.'ork.  It  was  with  no 
little  elation  tliat  she  laid  down  the  number. 

Not   that   the  critique  was  by  any  means  at 


TTIF".   WOMAN   WTIO    DTD. 


143 


all  favorable.      Mow  could   Hcrniinia  expect   it 
in  such  a  quarter?     liut  the  "Spectator"   is  at 
least  conspicuously  fair,    thou>;h   it   remains    in 
other  ways  an  interesting^  and  ivy-clad  mediaeval 
relic.      "Let   us  be-in  by  admittin<;,"  said   the 
Spectatorial     scribe,     "that     Miss    Monta-ue's 
book"   (she    had    j)ublished    it     under    a     pseu- 
donym) "is    a    work    of   ^^enius.      Much    as    we 
dislike    its  whole   tone,  and  still  more   its  con- 
clusions, the   -^leam  of  pure  genius  shines  torlh 
umleniable  on  every  page  of  it.      Whoever  takes 
it   up  must  read  on  against  his  will   till  he  has 
finished  the  last  line  of  this  terrible  tragedy;  a 
hateful   fascination   seems  to  hold   and    compel 
him.     Its  very  purity  makes  it  dangerous.       The 
book    is   mistaken;  the   book   is    poisonous;  the 
book   is  morbid;   the    book   is   calculated  to   (h) 
irremediable  mischief ;  bur  in  spite  of  all   that, 
the  book  is  a  book  of  undeniable  and  sadly  mis- 
placed genius." 

If  he  had  said  no  more,  llerminia  would  have 
been  amply  satisfied.  To  be  called  morbid  by 
the  "Spectator  "  is  a  sufficient  j)roof  that  you 
have  hit  at  least  the  right  tack  in  morals.  And 
to  be  accused  of  genius  as  well  was  indeed  a 
triumph.  No  wonder  llerminia  went  home  to 
her  lonely  attic  that  night  justifiably  elated. 
She  fancied  after  this  her  book  must  make  a 
hit.      It    might    be   binned   and    reviled,  but    at 


ir 


144 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


any  rate  it  was  now  srifc  frum  the  ignominy  of 
oblivion. 

Alas,  how  little  she  knew  of  the  mysteries  of 
the  book-market!  As  little  as  all  the  rest  of 
us.  Day  after  day,  from  that  afternoon  forth, 
she  watched  in  vain  for  succeeding  notices. 
Not  a  single  other  pa[)er  in  England  reviewed 
her.  At  the  libraries,  her  romancj  was  never 
so  much  as  asked  for.  And  the  reason  for 
these  phenomena  is  not  far  to  seek  by  those 
who  know  the  ways  of  the  liritish  public.  r\.)r 
her  novel  was  earnestly  and  sincerely  written; 
it  breathed  a  moral  air,  therefore  it  was  voted 
dull ;  therefore  nobody  cared  for  it.  The  "  Spec- 
tator "  had  noticed  it  because  of  its  manifest 
earnestness  and  sincerity  ;  for  though  the  "  Spec- 
tator "  is  always  on  the  side  of  the  lie  and  the 
wrong,  it  is  earnest  and  sincere,  and  has  a  gen- 
uine sympathy  for  earnestness  and  sincerity, 
even  on  the  side  of  truth  and  righteousness. 
N(~)body  else  even  looked  at  it.  People  said  to 
themselves,  "This  book  seems  to  be  a  book  with 
a  teaching  not  thoroughly  banal,  like  the  novels- 
with-a-purpose  after  which  we  flock;  so  we'll 
give   it  a  wide  berth." 

And  they  shunned  it  accordingly. 

That  was  the  end  of  Ilerminia  Barton's  lit- 
erary aspirations.  She  had  given  the  people  of 
her  best,  and  the  people  rejected   it.      Now  she 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


H5 


gave  them  of  her  most  mediocre;  the  nearest 
to  their  own  level  of  thou-ht  and  feeiin.--  to 
which  her  hand  couhl  reduce  itself.  And'the 
people  accepted  it.  The  rest  of  her  lite  was 
hack-work;  by  that,  she  could  at  least  earn  a 
livin-  for  Dolores.  Her  *' Anti-one,  for  the 
Use  of  Ladies'  Schools"  still  holds  its  own  at 
Girton  and  Somerville. 


10 


146 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


XIV. 


I  no  not  propose  to  dwell  at  any  lcnj;lh  upon 
the  next  ten  uv  twelve  years  of  llerniinia  l^ar- 
ton's  life.  An  episode  or  two  must  suffice;  and 
those  few  told  brietiy. 

She  saw  nothini:  oi  her  family.  Relations 
had  lon^j;  been  strained  between  them;  now  they 
were  ruptured.  To  the  rest  of  the  liartons,  she 
was  even  as  one  dead;  the  sister  and  dauL;hter's 
name  was  never  pronounced  arnon*;  them.  lUit 
once,  when  little  I^olores  was  about  five  years 
old,  I  Term  in  ia  happened  to  })ass  a  church  door 
in  Marylebone,  where  a  red-lettered  j^lacard 
announced  in  bold  type  that  the  Very  Reverend 
the  Dean  of  Dunwich  would  preach  there  on 
Sunday.  It  flashed  across  her  mind  that  this 
was  Sunday  mornin.t;.  An  overpowerini;  desire 
to  look  on  her  father's  face  once  more  —  she 
had  never  seen  her  mother's — impelled  ller- 
minia  to  enter  those  unwonted  portals.  The 
Dean  was  in  the  judpit.  He  looked  stately  and 
dii^nified  in  his  lon^  white  hair,  a  noticeable 
man,   tall   and  erect   to  the   last,  like  a  storm- 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   Dm. 


M7 


beaten  pine;  in  spite  of  iiis  threescore  years  and 
ten,    his   clear-cut   face    shone    thou-htful,   and 
striking,  and  earnest  as  ever.      lie  was  preach- 
ing  from   the   text,    "I  press   toward   the   mark 
for  the    prize    of    the    high   calling."     Ami    he 
preached,   as   he   always   did,    eloquently.      His 
river  of  speech  flowed   high   between  banks  out 
of   sight    of    the    multitude.      There    was    such 
perfect    sincerity,    such    moral  elevation    in    all 
he  said,  that   Herminia  felt  acutely,  as  she  had 
often    felt    before,   the    close    likeness    of    fibre 
which  united  her  to   him,    in  spite  of   extreme 
superficial    differences    of    belief    and    action. 
She  felt  it  so  much  that  when  the  sermon  was 
over   she   waited    at    the    vestry    door    for    her 
father   to   emerge.      She    couldn't    let    him  go 
away  without  making  at  least  an  effort  to  speak 
with  him. 

When  the  Dean  came  out,  a  gentle  smile  still 
playing  upon  his  intellectual  face,  —  f„r  he  was 
one  of  the  few  parsons  who  manage  in  their  old 
age  to  look  neither  sordid  nor  inane,  —he  .saw 
standing  by  the  vestry  door  a  woman  in  a  plain 
black  dres.s,  like  a  widow  of  the  people.  She 
held  by  the  hand  n  curly  haired  little  girl  of 
singularly  calm  and  innocent  expression."  The 
woman's  dark  hair  waved  gracefully  on  her  high 
forehead,  and  caught  his  attention.  Her  eyes 
were  subtly  sweet,    her   mouth  full   of  pathos. 


r48 


IIIE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


Slic  pressed  forward  to  speak  to  him;  the  Dean, 
all  beni-nity,  bent  his  head  to  listen. 

"r'ather!"  Uerminia  eried,  looking  up  at 
him. 

The  Dean  started  back.  The  woman  who 
thus  addressed  him  was  barely  twenty-eight, 
she  might  well  have  been  forty;  grief  and  hard 
life  had  made  her  old  before  her  time.  Her 
face  was  haggard.  Beautiful  as  she  still  was, 
it  was  the  beauty  of  a  broken  heart,  of  a  Mater 
Dolorosa,  not  the  roundfaced  beauty  of  the 
fresh  young  girl  who  had  gone  forth  rejoicing 
some  ten  years  earlier  from  the  Deanery  at 
Dunwich  to  the  lecture-rooms  at  Girton.  For 
a  moment  the  Dean  stared  hard  at  her.  Then 
with  a  burst  of  recognition  he  uttered  aghast 
the  one  word  "Herminia!" 

"l'\ather, "  Uerminia  answered,  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice,  "  I  have  fought  a  good  fight ;  I  have 
pressed  toward  the  mark  for  the  prize  of  a  high 
calling.  And  when  I  heard  you  preach,  I  felt 
just  this  once,  let  come  what  come  might,  I 
must  step  forth  to  tell  you  so." 

The  Dean  gazed  at  her  with  melting  eyes. 
J.ove  and  pity  beamed  strong  in  them.  **  Have 
you  come  to  re])ent,  my  child.'*"  he  asked,  with 
solemn  insistence. 

"Father,"  Herminia  made  answer,  lingering 
lovingly  on  the  word,  "  I  have  nothing  to  rej)ent 


THE   WOMAN"   WHO    DID. 


149 


of.  I  have  striven  hard  to  do  well,  and  have 
earned  scant  praise  for  it.  I^ut  I  come  to  ask 
to-day  for  one  grasp  of  your  hand,  one  word  of 
your  blessing.     Father,  father,  kiss  me!" 

The  old  man  drew  himself  u[)  to  his  full 
height,  with  his  silvery  hair  round  his  face. 
Tears  started  to  his  eyes;  his  voice  faltered. 
But  he  repressed  himself  sternly.  "No,  no, 
my  child,"  he  answered.  "  l\Ty  poor  old  heart 
bleeds  for  you.  ]^ut  not  till  you  come  with  full 
proofs  of  penitence  in  your  hands  can  I  ever 
receive  you.  I  have  prayed  for  you  without 
ceasing.  God  grant  you  may  repent.  Till 
then,  I  command  you,  keej)  far  away  from  me, 
and  from  your  untainted  sisters." 

The  child  felt  her  mother's  hand  tremble 
quivering  in  her  own,  as  she  led  her  from  the 
church;  but  never  a  word  did  Ilerminia  say, 
lest  her  heart  should  break  with  it.  As  soon 
as  she  was  outside,  little  Dolly  looked  up  at 
her.  (It  had  dwindled  from  Dolores  to  Dolly 
in  real  life  by  this  time;  years  bring  these 
mitigations  of  our  first  fierce  outbursts.)  "Who 
was  that  grand  old  gentleman.?"  the  child 
asked,  in  an  awe-f  cruck  voice. 

And  Herminia,  clasping  her  daughter  to  her 
breast,  answered  with  a  stifled  sob,  "That  was 
your  grandpa,  Dolly;  that  was  my  father  mv 
father."  '      ^ 


jpWpi 


150 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


The  child  put  no  more  questions  just  then  as 
is  the  wont  of  children;  but  she  treasured  up 
the  incident  for  long  in  her  heart,  wondering 
much  to  herself  why,  if  her  grandpa  was  so 
grand  an  old  gentleman,  she  and  her  mamma 
should  have  to  live  by  themselves  in  such 
scrubby  little  lodgings.  Also,  why  her  grand- 
pa, who  looked  so  kind,  should  refuse  so  severely 
to  kiss  her  mammy. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  many  doubts  and 
questionings  to  Dolores.  A  year  later,  the 
Dean  died  suddenly.  People  said  he  might 
have  risen  to  be  a  bishop  in  his  time,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  unfortunate  episode  about 
his  daughter  and  young  Merrick.  Herminia 
was  only  once  mentioned  in  his  will;  and  even 
then  merely  to  implore  the  divine  forgiveness 
for  her.  She  wept  over  that  sadly.  She  did  n't 
want  the  girls'  money,  she  was  better  able  to 
take  care  of  herself  than  l^lsieand  Ermyntrude; 
but  it  cut  her  to  the  quick  that  her  father 
should  have  quitted  the  world  at  last  without 
one  word  of  reconciliation. 

However,  she  went  on  working  j^lacidly  at  her 
hack-work,  and  living  for  little  Dolly.  Mer 
one  wish  now  was  to  make  Dolly  press  toward 
the  mark  for  the  i)rize  of  the  high  calling  she 
herself  by  mere  accident  had  missed  so  nar- 
rowly.     Her  own  life  was  done;  Alan's  death 


!  I 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DH^. 


151 


had   made   her  task   impossible;    but    if    Dolly 
could  fill    her   plaee  for  the  sake  of  humanity,  • 
she  would  not    re<<ret    it.      l-aiou^h   for    her    to 
have  martyred   herself;  she  asked  no  mercenary 
palm  and  crown  of  martyrdom. 

And  she  was  happy  in  her   life;  as  far  as  a 
certain  tranquil  sense  of  duty  done  could  make 
her,    she    was    passively    happy.      Her    kind    of 
journalism  was  so  commonplace  and  so  anony- 
mous that  she  was  spared  that  worst   insult  of 
seeing    her    hack-work    publicly    criticised     as 
though   it  afforded  some  adequate  reflection  of 
the  mind   that    produced    it,    instead    of   being 
merely  an  index  of  taste  in  the  minds  of  those 
for  whose  use  it  was  intended.     So  she  lived  for 
years,  a  machine  for  the   production  of  articles 
and    reviews;    and   a   devoted    mother    to    little 
developing  Dolly. 

On   Dolly  the   hopes   of  half   the  world"  now 
centred. 


152 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


XV. 


Not  that  Horminia  had  not  at  times  hard 
struggles  and  sore  temptations.  One  of  the 
hardest  and  sorest  came  when  Dolly  was  about 
six  years  old.      And  this  was  the  manner  of  it. 

One  day  the  child  who  was  to  reform  the 
world  was  returning  from  some  errand  on  which 
her  mother  had  sent  her,  when  her  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  very  fine  carriage,  stoi)ping 
at  a  door  not  far  from  their  lodgings.  Now 
Dolly  had  always  a  particular  weakness  for 
everything  "grand;  "  and  so  grand  a  turn-out  as 
this  one  was  rare  in  their  neighborhood.  She 
paused  and  stared  hard  at  it.  "  Whose  is  it, 
Mrs.  Biggs.-*"  she  asked  awe-struck  of  the 
friendly  charwoman,  who  happened  to  pass  at 
the  moment, — the  charwoman  who  frequently 
came  in  to  do  a  day's  cleaning  at  her  mother's 
lodging-house.  Mrs.  Biggs  knew  it  well; 
"It's  Sir  Anthony  Merrick's,"  she  answered 
in  that  peculiarly  hushed  voice  with  which 
the  English  poor  always  utter  the  names  of  the 


Tin-:    WOMAN    WHO    FMI). 


153 


titled  classes.  And  so  in  fact  it  was;  for  the 
famous  <;out  doctor  had  lately  hccw  kni-hted 
for  his  eminent  services  in  savini;  a  royal  duke 
from  the  worst  effects  of  his  own  seU -indul- 
gence. Dolly  ])ut  one  fat  fm-er  to  her  lip, 
and  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  looked  i;rave 
at  once.  Sir  yXnthony  Merrick !  What  a  very 
p:rand  ,t;entleman  he  must  he  indeed,  and  how 
nice  it  must  seem  to  be  able  to  drive  in  so  dis- 
tini^uished  a  vehicle  with  a  liveried  footman. 

As  she  paused  and  looked,  lost  in  enjoyment 
of  that  beatific  vision,  Sir  Anthony  himsrlf 
emer^^ed  from  the  porch.  Dolly  took  a  c.-(„,(l 
stare  at  him.  He  was  handsome,  austere,  clo.se- 
shaven,  implacable.  His  profile  was  c1rar-(ait, 
like  Trajan's  on  an  aureus.  I)r)||y  thought  that 
was  just  how  so  .i^rand  a  gentleman  ou-ht  to 
look;  and,  so  thinkin-  she  ,i;lanced  up  at  him, 
and  with  a  flash  of  her  white  teeth,  smiled  her 
childish  approval.  The  austere  old  K^-'ntleman, 
unwontedly  softened  by  that  cherub  face,  —  for 
indeed  she  was  as  winsome  as  a  baby  ani^^el 
of  Raphael's,  ~  .stooped  down  and  patted  the 
bri.i;ht  curly  head  that  turned  up  to  him  so 
trustfully.  "What  's  your  name,  little  woman  .?  " 
he  asl<ed,  with  a  sudden  wave  of  gentleness. 

And  Dolly,  all  agog  at  having  arrested  so 
grand  an  old  gentleman's  attention,  spoke  up 
in  her  clear  treble,  "  Dolores  Harton. " 


m 


154 


Tin-:  WOMAN  \vnr>  dh). 


Sir  Anthony  started.  Was  this  a  trap  to 
entangle  him?  lie  was  born  suspicious,  and 
he  feared  tliat  woman.  Hut  lie  looked  into 
Dolly's  blue  eyes  of  wonder,  and  all  doubt  iled 
from  him.  Was  it  blood.-*  was  it  instinct.''  was 
it  unconscious  nature .''  At  any  rate,  the  child 
seemed  to  melt  the  ^grandfather's  heart  as  if  by 
niaL;ic.  I-oiij.;  years  after,  when  the  due  time 
came,  Dolly  remembered  that  melting.  To 
the  prcjfound  amazement  of  the  footman,  who 
stood  with  the  carriage-door  ready  open  in  his 
hand,  the  old  man  bent  down  and  kissed  the 
child's  red  lips.  "God  bless  you,  my  dear!" 
he  murmured,  with  unwonted  tenderness  to  his 
son's  daughter.  Then  he  took  out  his  purse, 
and  drew  from  it  a  whole  gold  sovereign. 
"That's  for  you,  my  child,"  he  said,  fondling 
the  pretty  golden  curls.  "Take  it  home,  and 
tell  your  mammy  an  old  man  in  the  street  gave 
it  to  you." 

Ikit  the  coachman  observed  to  the  footman, 
as  they  drove  on  together  to  the  next  noble 
patient's,  "You  may  take  your  oath  on  it,  Mr. 
W^ells,  that  little  'un  there  was  Mr.  Alan's 
love-child!" 

Dolly  had  never  held  so  much  money  in  her 
hand  before;  she  ran  home,  clutching  it  tight, 
and  burst  in  upon  Herminia  with  the  startling 
news  that  Sir  Anthony  Merrick,   a  very  grand 


Tin:  \V(»\i.\\  WHO  did. 


'55 


gcntlcnian   in   a  very  fine  carriaL;o,  h:i(l   -iven  a 
gold   piece  to   her. 

CjoKI  pieces  were  rare  in  the  cahn  little  attic, 
but   Ilerminia  caii-ht  her  chiM    up  with    a   cry 
of    terror;     and    that    very    same    evenini;,    she 
changed   the  tainted    sovereign   with    Dolly    tor 
another   one,  and   sent    Sir  Anthony's    back    in 
an   envelope  without  a  word  to   llarley  Street. 
The  chiKl  who  was  born  to  tree  halt  the  hunian 
race   from   a?ons  of  slavery  must    be    kept    from 
all  contagion  of  man's  gold  and   man's  briberv. 
Yet    Dolly  never  forgot   the  grand   gentleman's 
name,  though  she  hadn't  the  least   idea  why  ho 
gave  that  yellow  coin  to   her. 

Out    of    this    small    episode,     however,    grew 
Herminia's  great  tenii)tation. 

For  Sir  Anthony,   being  a  man  tenacious  of 
his    purpose,    went    home   that   day   full   of    re- 
lenting thoughts  about  that  girl  Dolores.      Iler 
golden  hair  had  sunk  deep  into  his  heart.      She 
was  Alan's  own  child,  after  all;  she  had  Alan's 
blue  eyes;  and  in  a  world  where  your  daughters 
go  off  and  marry  men  you  don't  like,  while  your 
sons  turn  out  badly,  and  don't  marry  at  all   to 
vex    you,    it  's   something    to    have   some    fresh 
young  life  of  your  blood  to  break  in  upon  your 
chilly   old    age   and   cheer   you.      So   the    great 
doctor  called    a  few  days    later  at  Herminia's 
lodgings,  and  having  first  ascertained  that  Her- 


itl    , 


fli   I 


156 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


minia  herself  was  out,  had  five  minutes'  conver- 
sation alone  with  her  landlady. 

'J'here  were  times,  no  doubt,  when  IVIrs.  I'ar- 
ton  was  ill?  The  landlady  with  the  caution 
of  her  class,  admitted  that  mi«;ht  be  so.  And 
times  no  doubt  when  Mrs.  l^arton  was  for  the 
moment  in  arrears  with  her  rent.?  The  land- 
lady, fjjood  loyal  soul,  demurred  to  that  sui(.L;es- 
tion ;  she  knit  her  brows  and  hesitated.  Sir 
/Vnthony  hastened  to  set  her  mind  at  rest.  His 
intentions  were  most  friendly.  He  wished  to 
keep  a  watch,  —  a  ([uiet,  well-meaning,  unsus- 
pected watch,  — over  Mrs.  Barton's  necessities. 
He  desired,  in  point  of  fact^  if  need  were,  to 
relieve  them.  Mrs.  l^arton  was  distantly  con- 
nected with  relations  of  his  own;  and  his  notion 
was  that  without  seemini;  to  hel|)  her  in  obtru- 
sive ways,  he  would  like  to  make  sure  Mrs. 
]?arton  irot  into  no  serious  difficulties.  Would 
the  landlady  be  so  «;ood  —  a  half  sovereign 
glided  into  that  subservient  palm — as  to  let 
Sir  Anthony  know  if  she  ever  had  reason  to 
suspect  a  very  serious  strain  was  bein*^^  jnit  on 
Mrs.  liarton's  resources.? 

The  landlady,  droppini;  the  modern  apology  for 
a  courtesy,  jiromised  wilh  effusion  under  pres- 
sure of  hard  cash,  to  accede  to  Sir  Anthony's 
benevolent  wishes.  The  more  so  as  she  'd  do 
anything   to  serve  clear   Mrs.    Barton,  who   was 


1 


TIIK   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


157 


always  in  cvcrythi;:i;  a  perfect  lady,  most  in- 
dependent, in  faet  ;  (Uie  ni  the  kind  as  would  n't 
be  beholden  to  anvbodv  for  a  fartiiinif. 

Some  months  passed  away  before  the  land- 
lady had  cause  to  report  to  Sir  Anthony.  Hut 
during  the  worst  dej)ths  of  the  next  London 
winter,  wlien  gray  fog  gathered  thick  in  tiic 
purlieus  of  Marylebone,  antl  shivering  gusts 
groaned  at  the  street  corners,  i>)or  little  Dolly 
caught  whoojiing-cough  brully.  On  top  of  the 
whooping-cough  came  an  attack  of  bronchitis; 
and  on  top  of  the  bronchitis  a  serious  throat 
trouble.  Herminia  sat  uj)  nigjit  after  night, 
nursing  her  child,  and  neglecting  the  work  on 
which  both  dej^ended  for  su])sistence.  Week 
by  week  things  grew  worse  and  worse;  and  Sir 
Anthony,  kept  duly  informed  by  the  landlady, 
waited  and  watched,  and  bided  his  time  in 
siltmcc.  At  last  the  case  became  desperate. 
Herminia  had  no  money  left  to  {)ay  her  bill 
or  buy  food,  and  one  string  to  her  bow  after 
another  broke  do^vn  in  journalism.  ller  |)laco 
as  the  weekly  lady's-letter  writer  to  an  illus- 
trated paper  passed  on  to  a  substitute;  blank 
poverty  stared  her  in  th<'face,  n.evitable.  When 
it  came  to  pawning  the  ly}M>writi'r,  as  the  land- 
lady reported,  Sir  Anthony  »milcd  a  grim  smde 
to  himself.  The  momerH  for  action  had  IjOW 
arrived.      He  would  ];ut  on  pre&sure  to  get  away 


1 


158 


rilF    WOMAN    WHO    DID, 


mi  : 


poor  Alan's  illegitimate  child  from  that  dreadful 
woman. 

Next  day  he  called.  Dolly  was  dani^^erously 
ill,  —  so  ill  that  llerminia  could  n't  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  dismiss  the  great  doctor  from  her  d<ior 
without  letting  him  see  her.  And  Sir  Anthony 
saw  her.  The  child  recognized  him  at  once 
and  rallied,  and  smiled  at  him.  She  stretched 
her  little  arms.  She  must  surely  get  well  if  a 
gentleman  who  drove  in  so  fine  a  carriage,  and 
scattered  sovereigns  like  ha'pennies,  came  in  to 
prescribe  for  her.  Sir  Anthony  was  flattered 
at  her  friendly  reception.  Those  thin  small 
arms  touched  the  grandf::ther's  heart.  "She 
will  recover, "  he  said;  "luit  she  needs  good 
treatment,  delicacies,  refinements."  Then  he 
slipped  out  of  the  room,  and  spoke  seriously  to 
llerminia.  "Let  her  come  to  me,"  he  urged. 
"I  '11  adojit  her,  and  give  her  her  father's  name. 
It  will  be  better  for  herself;  better  for  her 
future.  She  shall  be  treated  as  my  grand- 
daughter, wel'-taught,  well-kept;  and  )()U  may 
see  her  every  six  months  for  a  fortnight's  visit. 
If  you  consent,  I  will  allow  you  a  hundretl  a 
year  for  yourself.  Let  bygones  be  bygones. 
For  the  child's  sake,  say  jr.s .'  She  needs  so 
much  that   you  can   never  give  her!" 

Poor   llerminia  was   sore  tried.      As   for   the 
hundred  a  year,  she  could  n't  dream  of  accept- 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    niO. 


159 


ing  it;  but  like  a  flash  it  went  thrnno-h  her 
brain  how  many  a'lhantaL^cs  Dolly  couUl  enjoy 
in  that  wealthy  household  that  the  harcl-wurk- 
ing  journalist  eould  not  j^ossibly  affortl  her. 
She  thou,i;!it  uf  the  unpaid  bills,  the  enijjty 
cupboard,  the  wolf  at  the  door,  the  blank  out- 
look for  the  future.  l-'or  a  seeond,  she  half 
hesitated.  "Come,  come!"  Sir  Anthony  said; 
"for  the  'dind's  own  sake;  you  won't  be  so 
selfish  as  to  ^tantl  in  her  way,  will  you  .^  " 

Those  words  roused  llerininia  to  a  true  sense 
of  her  duty.  **Sir  Anthony  Merrick,"  she  said 
holding  her  breath,  "that  child  is  my  child,  ;ind 
my  dear  dead  Alan's.  I  owe  it  to  Alan,  -I 
owe  it  U)  her,  — to  bring  her  up  in  the  way  that 
Alan  would  approve  of.  I  brought  her  into  the 
world;  and  my  duty  is  to  do  what  I  can  to  dis- 
charge the  responsibilities  I  then  undertook  to 
her.  I  must  train  her  uj)  to  be  a  useful  citizen. 
Not  for  thousands  would  I  resign  the  delii;ht 
and  honor  of  teaching  my  chiUi  to  those  who 
would  teach  her  w'nt  Alan  and  I  believed  to 
be  pernicious;  who  would  teach  her  to  despise 
her  mother's  life,  and  to  reject  the  holy  menu)ry 
of  lu  r  father.  As  I  said  to  you  bjf(»re,  that  day 
at  Terugia,  so  I  say  to  yuu  now,  '  Tl'y  money 
perish  with  thee.'  \'ou  U'  r  i  p  -ver  again  come 
here  to  bribe  me." 

"is  that   finaP"  Sir    .*•     '     :y   asked.      And 


i6o 


TIIK   WOMAN    WIK)    DTD. 


I 


llcrminia  answered   with   a   bow,    "Yes,    final; 
quite  final." 

Sir  Anthony  bent  his  head  and  left.  Her- 
minia  stood  face  to  face  with  abject  poverty. 
Si)urred  by  want,  by  indignation,  by  terror,  by  a 
sense  of  the  al)solute  necessity  for  action,  she 
carried  her  writinir  materials  then  and  there  into 
Dolly's  sick-room,  and  sittin^i;  by  her  child's 
cot,  she  began  to  write,  she  hardly  knew  what, 
as  tile  words  themselves  came  to  her.  In  a 
fever  of  excitement  she  wrote  and  wrf)te  and 
wrote.  She  wiote  as  one  writes  in  the  silence 
of  midnight.  It  was  late  before  she  finished. 
When  her  manuscript  was  comj:)lete,  she  slipped 
out  and  posted  it  to  a  weekly  paper.  It  appeared 
that  same  Saturday,  and  was  the  beginning  of 
Herminia's  most  valual)le  connection. 

I-)Ut  even  after  she  had  postetl  it  the  dis- 
tracted mother  could  not  ]xuise  (•r  rest.  Dolly 
tossed  and  turned  in  her  sleep,  and  Ilerminia 
sat  watching  her.  She  pined  for  sympathy. 
Vague  ancestral  yearnings,  gathering  head  with- 
in her,  made  her  long  to  pray,  —if  only  there 
had  been  anybody  or  anything  to  pray  to.  She 
clasped  her  bhrndlcss  hands  in  an  agony  of 
solitude.  Oh,  tor  a  fricjul  to  comfort!  At  last 
her  overwrought  feelings  found  vent  in  verse. 
She  seized  a  pencil  from  her  desk,  and  sitting 


TIIK   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


i6l 


by    Dolly's    sitle,    wrote    down     her    heart -felt 
prayer,  as  it  eame  to  her  that  iiKjinent,  — 

A  crowiK'd  Caprice  is  god  of  the  wcild  : 

On  his  stony  breast  are  his  white  wings  furled. 

No  ear  to  iicarken,  ncj  eye  to  see, 

No  heart  to  feel  for  a  man  hath  he. 

JUit  Ids  pitiless  hands  are  swift  to  smite, 
And  his  mute  lips  utter  one  wr)rd  of  nuidit 
In  the  clash  of  gentler  souls  and  rougher  — 
'  \\rt>ng  must  tliou  do,  or  wrong  n>ust  .sulfLr.' 

Then  grant,  O  dund).  Mind  god,  at  le.ist  tluit  wc 
Rather  the  sulferers  than  the  doers  be. 


II 


l62 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


XVI. 


A  CHANCE  canic  at  last,  when  Dolly  was  ten 
years  old.  Anioni;  the  men  of  whom  Herminia 
saw  most  in  tliese  later  days,  were  the  little 
group  of  advanced  London  socialists  who  call 
themselves  the  h'abians.  And  among  her  l"\abian 
friends  one  of  the  most  active,  the  most  eager, 
the  most  individual,  was  Harvey  Kynaston. 

He  was  a  younger  man  by  many  years  than 
poor  Alan  had  been;  about  Herminia's  own 
age;  a  brilliant  economist  with  a  future  before 
him.  He  aimed  at  the  Cabinet.  When  first 
he  met  Herminia  he  was  charmed  at  one  glance 
by  her  chastened  beauty,  her  breadth  and  depth 
of  soul,  her  transjiarent  sincerity  of  purpose 
and  action.  Tliose  wistful  eyes  captured  him. 
Ik'fore  many  davs  passed  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her.  lUit  he  knew  her  history;  and,  tak- 
lUii  it  iv  r  ^■ranted  she  must  still  be  immerseil  in 
regret  for  Alan's  loss,  he  hardly  even  reckoned 
the  chances  of  her  caring  for  him. 

'T  is  a  common  case.  Have  you  ever  noticed 
that  if  you  meet  a  woman,  famous  for  her  con- 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


1^3 


ncction     vith  some  absorbing  grief,   some   his- 
toric tragedy,  you  are  half  appalled  at  first  siglit 
to  find  that  at  times  she  ean   laugh,  and   make 
merry,  and   look  gay  with  the  rest  of  us.      Her 
callous  glee  shocks  you.      Yini  mentally  expect 
her   to  be  forever  engaged   in  the   teartul    con- 
templation of  her  own  tragic  fate;  wra])t  up   in 
those    she    has    lost,    like    the    mourners    in    a 
i'ieta.    Whenever  you   have  thought  of   her,  jou 
have    connected    her    in    your    mind    with    that 
one    fact    in    her    history,    which    perhaps    may 
have   happened   a  great   many  years   ago.      Ihit 
to  you,    it    is    as    yesterday.      You    forget    that 
since  then  many  things  have   occurred  to   her. 
She  has  lived  her  life;  she  has  learned  to  smile; 
human  nature  itself  cannot  feed  for  years  on  the 
continuous   comtemplation    of   its   own   deepest 
sorrows.    It  even  jars  you  to  find  that  the  widow 
of   a  patriotic   martyr,  a  murdered    missionary, 
has  her  moments  of  enjoyment,  and  must  wither 
away  without  them. 

So,  just  at  first,  Harvey  Kynaston  was  afraid 
to  let  Herminia  see  how  sincerely  he  admired 
h  r.  He  thought  of  her  rather  as  one  whose 
life  is  spent,  who  can  bring  to  the  banquet  but 
the  cold  dead  ashes  of  a  past  existence.  Grad- 
ually, however,  as  he  saw  more  and  more  of 
her,  it  began  to  strike  him  that  Herminia  was 
still     in    all    essentials    a    woman.      His    own 


\hl 


164 


Till'.    WOMAN    WIK  t    DID. 


throhbiiiL^  heart  told  liiiii  so  as  he  sat  aiul 
talked  with  her.  lie  thrilled  at  her  approach. 
l)it  l)y  hit  the  idea  rose  up  in  his  mind  that 
this  lonely  soul  might  suil  hr  wori.  lie  set  to 
work  in  earnest  to  woo  anil  win  her. 

As  for  Ilerminia,  many  men  had  paid  her 
attentions  already  in  her  unwedded  widowhood. 
Some  of  them,  alter  the  fashion  of  men,  ha\ing 
heard  i^arbled  versions  of  her  tragic  story,  and 
seeking  to  gain  some  base  advantage  for  them- 
selves froni  their  knowledge  ol  her  ])ast,  strove 
to  assail  her  crudely.  Them,  witii  uneiring 
womanly  instinct,  she  early  discerned,  and 
with  unerring  feminine  tact,  undeceived  and 
lunnbled.  Others,  genuinely  attracted  by  her 
beauty  and  her  patience,  paid  real  cnurt  to 
her  heart;  but  all  these  fell  far  short  of  her 
ideid  slandard.  With  Harvey  Kynaston  it  was 
different.  She  achr.ired  him  as  a  thinkei  ;  she 
liked  him  as  a  man  ;  and  she  felt  from  the  hrst 
moment  that  no  friend,  since  Alan  died,  had 
stirred  her  pulse  so  deej)ly  as  lie  did. 

I'^)r  s(»me  months  they  met  often  at  the  I'abian 
meetings  and  elsewhere;  till  at  last  it  became 
a  habit  with  them  to  spend  their  Suntlay  mornings 
on  some  breezy  wold  in  the  country  together, 
Herminia  was  still  as  free  as  ever  from  any 
shrinking  terror  as  to  what  "  i)eople  might 
say;"  as  of  old.    she   livetl  her  life  for   herself 


t?n 


THE   WOMAX   WHO    DID. 


165 


and  her  conscience,  not  for  the  oi)ini()n  of  a 
blind  and  superstitious  majority.  On  one  such 
August  morning,  they  had  taken  the  train  from 
London  to  Ilaslemere,  with  Dolly  of  course  by 
their  side,  and  then  had  strolled  uj)  Hind  Head 
by  the  beautiful  footpath  which  mounts  at  fust 
through  a  chestnut  copse,  and  then  between 
heatlier-clad  hills  to  the  summit.  At  the  lone- 
liest turn  of  the  track,  where  two  purple  glens 
divide,  Harvey  Kynaston  seated  himself  on  the 
soft  bed  of  ling;  Herminia  sank  l)y  his  side; 
and  Dolly,  after  awhile,  not  understanding  their 
conversation,  wandered  off  by  herself  a  little 
way  afield  in  search  of  harebells  and  si)otted 
orchises.  Dolly  found  her  mother's  friends 
were  apt  to  bore  her;  she  preferred  the  s(.ciety 
of  the  landlady's  daughters. 

It  was  a  delicious  day.  Hard  by,  a  slow- 
worm  sunned  himself  on  the  basking  sand. 
l)lue  dragon-flies  dashed  on  gauze  wings  in  the 
hollows.  Harvey  Kynaston  looked  on  Hor- 
minia's  face  uni]  saw  that  she  was  fair.  With 
an  effort  he  made  up  his  mind  to  sneak  at  last. 
In  i)lain  and  simple  words  he  asked  her  rever- 
ently the  same  (piestion  that  Alan  had  asked 
her  so  long  ago  on   tlu'   Holmwood. 

Ilerminia's  throat  Hushed  a  rosy  red,  and  nn 
unwonted  sense  of  j)leasure  stole  over  that  hard- 
worked  frame  as  she  listened  to  his  werds;  for 


1 66 


Till'.   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


II 


indeed  she  was  fond  of  lum.  lUit  she  answer^-d 
him  at  once  without  a  nmnient's  Invitation. 
"Harvey,  I'm  ^lad  you  ask  me,  for  I  like  and 
achnire  you.  lUit  I  feel  sure  beforehand  my 
answer  must  he  no.  T'or  I  think  what  you  mean 
is  to  ask,  will  I  marry  you?  " 

The  man  jj;azed  at  her  hard.  lie  spoke  low 
and  deferentially.  "  Ves,  llerminia,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  do  mean,  will  you  marry  me.'  I 
know,  of  course,  how  you  feel  about  this  matter; 
I  know  what  you  have  sacrificed,  how  deeply 
you  have  suffered,  for  the  sake  of  your  prin- 
ciples. And  that  's  just  why  I  p^ead  with  you 
now  to  ijj^nore  them.  You  ha\\  ij;iven  proof 
loni;  ago  of  your  devotion  to  the  rii^ht.  Vou 
may  surely  fall  back  this  second  time  uj^on  the 
easier  way  of  ordinary  humanity.  In  theory, 
llerminia,  I  accept  your  point  of  view;  I  approve 
the  ecpial  liberty  of  men  and  women,  j)olitically, 
socially,  personally,  ethically.  But  in  i^ractice, 
I  don't  want  to  brin'j;  unnecessary  trouble  on 
the  head  of  a  woman  I  love;  and  to  live 
toc;ether  (Uherwise  than  as  the  law  directs  does 
bring  unnecessary  trouble,  as  you  know  too 
profoimdly.  I'hat  is  the  only  reason  wdiy  I  ask 
you  to  marry  me.  And  llerminia,  llerminia," 
he  leant  forv\ard  appealingly,  "for  the  love's 
sake  I  bear  you,  I   hope  you  will  consent  to  it." 

His  voice  was   low   and    tender.      llerminia, 


THE    WOMAN    Mlo    nin. 


167 


sick  at  heart  with  that  long  fierce  strii;;'j;lo 
against  overwhehiiini;-  (xkls,  could  aliimst  liave 
said  j'lS  to  him.  Her  own  nature  prompted 
her;  she  was  V'  ry,  very  tond  ot  him.  Hut  she 
paused  for  a  second.  Then  she  answered  him 
gravely. 

"Harvey,"  she    said,    looking    tleep    into    his 
honest  hrown  eyes,   "as  we  grow  middle-aged, 
and    find    how    impossible    it    must    ever    be    to 
achieve  any  good   in  a  world    like  this,  how  sail 
a  fate   it    is   to    ])e   born  a  civilized   being   m  :i 
barbaric  community,  I'm  afraid   moral    imi)ulse 
half  dies  down  within   us.      The  passionate  aim 
grows  cold;  the  ardent  glow  fad.s  and  flickers 
into    apathy.      I  'm    ashamed    to    tell    you    the 
truth,  it  seems  such  weakness;  yet   as   you  ask 
me  this,  I  think   I  r.v//  tell  you.      Once  upon  a 
time,  if  you  had    made  such  a   proposal  to  me, 
if  you  had  urged  me   to  be  false  to  my  clearest 
principles,  to  sin  against  the  light,  to  deny  the 
truth,  I  would  have  flashed  forth  a  //<;  upon  you 
without  one  moment's  hesitation.      And  now,  in 
my    disillusioned    middle   age   what   do    I   feel.? 
Ho   you   know,    I  almost   feel    tempted   to   give 
way  to  this  Martinmas  summer  of   love,  to  4ul- 
tify  my   jjast    by  unsaying   and    undoing   eveiy- 
thing.      J'\)r   I   love  you,  Harvey.      If  I  were  to 
give   way   now,    as   George    VMot   gave    way,  as 
almost  every  woman   who  once   tried   to    live  a 


IG8 


Tin:    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


free  life  for  her  sisters'  sake,  lias  [;iven  way  in 
the  end,  I  should  eounteraet  any  little  good  my 
example  has  ever  done  or  may  ever  do  in  the 
world;  and  Harvey,  strange  as  it  sounds,  I  teel 
more  than  half  inelined  to  do  it.  J  kit  I  icill 
not,  I  iK.nll  n(;t ;  and  I  "11  tell  you  why.  It's 
not  so  mueh  prineii)le  that  prevents  me  now.  I 
admit  that  freely.  The  toi})or  of  middle  age 
is  ereeping  (ner  my  conseience.  It  's  simijle 
regard  for  personal  eonsistency,  and  for  Dolly's 
positiori.  How  ean  I  go  hack  upon  the  faith 
for  which  I  have  martyred  myself.'  How  can  I 
say  to  Dolly,  '  I  would  n't  marry  your  father  in 
my  youth,  for  honor's  sake;  but  I  have  con- 
sentetl  in  middle  life  to  sell  my  sisters'  cause 
for  a  man  I  love,  and  for  the  consideration  of 
society;  to  rehabilitate  myself  too  late  with  a 
world  I  despise  by  becoming  one  man's  slave, 
as  I  swore  I  never  would  be.'  No,  no,  dear 
Harvey;  I  can't  do  that.  Some  sense  of  per- 
sonal continuity  restrains  me  still.  It  is  the 
Nemesis  of  our  youth;  we  can't  go  back  in  our 
later  life  on  the  holier  and  purer  ideals  oi  our 
girlhood. " 

"Then  you  say  no  definitely.-*"  Harvey 
Kynaston  asked. 

Herminia's  voice  quivered.  "I  say  no 
definitely,"  she  answered;  "unless  you  can 
consent  to  live  with  me  on  the  terms  on  which 
I  lived  with  Dolly's  father." 


Tin;   WOMAN    WHO    DID, 


160 


The  man  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  hebej^an 
to  plead  hard  inv  reeonsideiauoii.  lUit  IKt- 
minia's  mind  was  made  up.  She  eould  n\  hdie 
lier  past;  she  eoidd  n"t  he  false  to  llu-  pritieiph'S 
for  whose  sake  she  had  staked  and  Inst  cvcry- 
thin<;.  "  \o,  no,"  she  said  firmly,  over  and 
over  a£,^ain.  "  Vou  must  take  me  my  own  way, 
or  you  must  i;o  without  me." 

And  Harvey  Kynaston  eould  n't  eonsent  to 
take  her  her  own  way.  His  faith  was  too  weak, 
ids  ambitions  w.re  too  earthly.  "Herminia," 
he  said,  before  they  i)arted  that  afternoon,  "we 
may  still  be  friends;  still  dear  friends  as  ever? 
This  episode  need  make  no  difference  to  a  very 
close  companionship.^" 

"It  need  make  no  difference,"  Herminia  an- 
swered, with  a  lii^ht  touch  of  her  hand.  "  Har- 
vey, I  have  far  too  few  friends  in  the  world 
willin.i;ly  to  give  up  one  of  them.  Come  ai^ain 
and  l;o  down  with  Dolly  and  me  to  Hind  J  lead 
as  usual  next  Sunday." 

"Thank  you,"  the  man  answered.  "Her- 
minia, 1  wish  it  could  have  been  otherwise. 
But  since  I  must  nc-vcr  have  you,  T  can  promise 
you  one  thin--;  f  will  never  marry  any  other 
woman." 

Hermini:  started  nt  the  words.  "Oh,  no," 
she  cried  cpiickly.  "How  can  you  speak  like 
that.^     How  can  you  say  anything  so  wrong,  so 


11: 


170 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DU). 


untrue,  so  foolish?  To  be  cc'lil)ato  is  a  very 
great  misfortune  even  for  a  woman ;  for  a  man 
it  is  impossil)le,  it  is  eruel,  it  is  wieked.  1 
endure  it  myself,  for  my  eiiild's  sake,  and  be- 
cause I  find  it  hard  to  discover  the  help  meet 
for  me;  or  because,  when  discovered,  he  refuses 
to  acce})t  me  in  the  only  way  in  which  I  can 
bestow  myself.  lUit  for  a  man  to  pretend  to 
live  celibate  is  to  cloak  hateful  wrong  under  a 
guise  of  respectability.  I  should  be  unhappy 
if  I  thought  any  man  was  doing  such  a  vicious 
thing  out  of  desire  to  |)lease  me.  Take  some 
other  woman  on  free  terms  if  you  can;  but  if 
you  cannot,  it  is  better  you  should  marry  than 
be  a  party  to  still  deeper  and  more  loathsome 
slavery. " 

And    from    that    day    forth    they    were    loyal 
friends,  no  more,  one  to  the  other. 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


171 


XVII. 

A\n  yet  our  I  Term  in  ia  was  a  woman  after  all. 
Some  three  years  later,  when  Harvey  Kynaston 
came  to  visit  her  one  day,  and  told  her  he  was 
really  <;oin,^^  to  be  married,  — what  sudden  thrill 
was  this  that  passed  through  and  through  her. 
Her  heart  stood  still.  She  was  aware  that  she 
regretted  the  comparative  loss  of  a  very  near 
and  dear  accjuaintance. 

She  knew  she  was  ([uite  wroni;-  It  was  th'.« 
leaven  of  slavery.  lUit  these  monop^)list  in- 
stincts, wliich  have  wrought  more  harm  in  the 
world  we  live  in  than  fire  or  sword  or  i)esti- 
lence  or  tempest,  hardly  die  at  all  as  yet  in  a 
few  good  men,  and  die,  fighting  hard  for  life, 
even   in  the  noblest  women. 

She  reasoned  with  herself  against  so  hateful 
a  feeling.  Though  she  knew  tlie  truth,  she 
found  it  hard  to  follow.  No  man  imleed  is 
truly  civilized  till  he  can  say  in  all  sincerity 
to  every  vvoman  of  all  the  women  he  loves,  to 
every  woman  (jf  all  the  women   who  luve  hini, 


i 


172 


THE    WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


*'r}i\'c  me  what  you  can  of  your  love  and  of 
yoursclt;  but  never  strive  for  my  sake  to  deny 
any  hjve,  to  stran,L;le  any  inijnilse  that  pants  for 
breatli  within  you.  Give  me  what  you  can, 
while  you  can,  without  j^rutl^in.i;,  but  the 
moment  you  f«.'el  you  h)ve  me  no  more,  don't 
polhite  your  own  body  by  yielding  it  up  tn  a 
man  you  ha\e  censed  to  desire;  don't  do  injus- 
tice to  your  own  ju-ospective  children  by  giving 
them  a  lather  whom  )()u  no  longer  respect,  or 
admiie,  or  yearn  for.  (iuaiil  your  chastity  well. 
lie  mine  as  much  as  you  will,  as  long  as  you 
will,  to  such  extent  as  you  will,  but  before  all 
things  be  your  own;  embrace  ami  follow  every 
instinct  of  pure  love  that  nature,  our  mother, 
has  imparted  within  you."  No  wom;ui,  in  tuin, 
is  truly  civilized  till  she  can  say  to  every  man 
of  all  the  men  she  loves,  of  all  the  men  who 
love  her,  "Give  me  what  you  can  of  your  love, 
and  of  yourself;  but  don't  think  I  am  so  vile, 
and  so  selfish,  and  so  poor  as  to  desire  to 
monopolize  you.  Respect  me  enough  never  to 
give  me  your  body  without  gi\ing  me  your 
heart;  never  to  make  me  the  mother  of  child- 
ren whom  you  desire  not  and  love  not."  When 
men  and  women  can  say  that  alik*.,  the  world 
will  be  civilizetl.  Until  tlu'y  can  say  it  truly, 
the  world  will  be  as  now  a  jarring  battleheld 
for  the  monopolist   instincts. 


TIIF,   WOMAN'    WHO    DID. 


1/3 


Those  jealous  and  odious  instincts  have  hccn 
the  bane  of  humanity.  They  have  ,L;i\cn  us  the 
stiletto,  the  Morgue,  the  howii'-knit'c.  Our 
race  must  inevitably  in  the  end  outlive  them. 
The  test  ot"  man's  plane  in  the  scale  of  beiui;- 
is  how  tar  he  has  .)ut lived  them.  They  are 
surviviui;-  relics  of  the  ape  and  ti.i^er.  Hut  we 
must  let  the  ai)e  and  ti-er  die.  We  must  cease 
U)  be  Calibans.      We  must  bei;in  to  l)e  human. 

Patriotism  is  the  one  of  thi'se  lowest  vices 
which  most  often  mascjuerades  in  false  ,L;arb  as 
a  virtue.  Hut  what  after  all  /s  patriotism? 
"My  country,  ri-ht  or  wron.i;,  and  just  because 
it  is  my  country!"  This  is  ckarly  nothin.i; 
more  than  collective  selfishness.  Often  enoui^h, 
indeed,  it  is  not  even  collective.  It  means 
merely,  '' A/j>  business-interests  a,i;ainst  tlie 
business-interests  of  other  iK-ople,  and  let  the 
taxes  of  my  fellow-citizens  j)ay  to  sujiport 
them."  At  oth.'r  times  it  means  j)ure  ])ride  of 
race,  and  pure  lust  of  con^iuest;  "  wj'  country 
aj;ainst  other  countries;  ///;-  army  and  navy 
a-^ainst  other  fi<;hters;  wr  ri.L;ht  to  annex  un- 
occupied territory  a,L;ainst  the  ecpial  ri-ht  of 
all  other  peoples;  ?;/j>  power  to  o))press  all 
weaker  nationalities,  all  inferior  races."  It 
wrrrr  means  or  can  mean  anvthim;  cjood  or  true. 
I'or  if  a  cause  be  just,  like  Ireland's,  or  once 
Italy's,  then  'tis  a  good  man's  duty  to  csihjuso 


J  74 


Tin:   WOMAN    Wild    DID. 


V 


I 


I 


it  wiih  wannth,  be  it  his  own  or  another's. 
And  if  a  cause  he  had,  then  't  is  a  ^^ood  man's 
duty  to  opi)ose  it,  tootli  and  nail,  irrespective 
of  your  patriotism.  True,  a  good  man  will 
feel  more  sensitively  anxious  that  strict  justice; 
should  be  done  by  the  particular  community  of 
which  chrmce  has  made  him  a  component  mem- 
ber than  by  any  others;  but  then,  people  who 
feel  acutely  this  joint  responsibility  of  all  the 
citizens  to  uphold  the  moral  right  are  not 
praised  as  jiatriots  but  reviled  as  unpatriotic. 
To  urge  that  our  own  country  should  strive 
with  all  its  might  to  be  better,  higher,  purer, 
nobler,  more  generous  than  other  countries, 
—  the  only  kind  of  patriotism  worth  a  moment's 
thought  in  a  righteous  man's  eyes,  is  accounted 
by  most  men  both  wicked  and  foolish. 

Then  comes  the  monopolist  instinct  of  prop- 
erty. That,  on  the  face  of  it,  "  i  baser  and 
more  sordid  one.  1^'or  patriotism  at  least  can 
lay  claim  to  some  sort  of  delusive  expansive- 
ness  beyond  mere  individual  interest;  whereas 
proj)erty  stops  short  at  the  narrowest  limits  of 
personality.  It  is  no  longer  "  Us  against  the 
world!"  but  "  Me  against  my  fellow-citizens !  " 
It  is  the  last  word  of  the  intercivic  war  in  its 
most  hideous  avatar.  Look  how  it  scars  the 
fair  face  of  our  common  country  with  its  anti- 
social notice-boards,  "Trespassers  will  be  pros- 


THE  WdMAN   WHO   DID. 


175 


eciitcd."  It  .says  In  uffcct,  "This  is  my  huul. 
As  I  believe,  God  iiuule  it;  but  I  have  aecjiiired 
it,  and  tabofjed  il  to  myself,  for  my  own  enjoy- 
ment. The  grass  on  the  wold  grows  green; 
but  only  (or  me.  The  mountains  rise  glorious 
in  the  morning  sim  ;  no  foot  of  man,  sa\-e  mine 
and  my  gillies'  shall  tread  them.  The  water- 
falls leap  white  from  the  ledge  in  the  glen; 
avaunt  there,  non  possessors ;  your  eye  shall 
never  see  them.  b'or  you  the  muddy  street; 
for  me,  miles  of  upland.  All  thi^'  is  my  own. 
And  r  ehoose  to  monopolize  it." 

Or  is  it  the  eapitalist.'  "  I  will  add  field  to 
field,"  he  cries  aloiid,  desidte  his  own  Scripture; 
"I  will  join  railway  to  railway.  I  will  juggle 
into  my  own  hands  all  the  instruments  for  the 
production  of  wealth  tliat  my  cunning  caii  lay 
hold  of;  and  I  will  use  them  for  my  own  purposes 
against  producer  and  consumer  alike  with  impar- 
tial egoism.  Corn  and  coal  shall  lie  in  the  h(d- 
low  of  my  hand.  I  will  enrich  myself  bv  makini: 
dear  l)y  craft  the  necessaries  of  life;  the  jjoor 
shall  lack,  that  I  may  roll  down  fair  streets  in 
needless  luxury.  Let  them  starve,  and  (red 
nie!"  That  temper,  too,  humanitv  must  out- 
live. And  those  who  are  incapable  of  outliviuLT 
it  of  them.selves  must  be  taught  by  stern  les- 
.sons,  as  in  the  splendid  uprising  of  the  spirit  of 
man  in  iM-ance,  that  their  race  has  outstripped 
them. 


Hi 


176 


TlIK   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


Next  comes  the  monopoly  of  human  life,  the 
hideous  utohl:;  of  skuery.  That,  thank  good- 
ness, is  now  t;()ne.  'T  was  the  vilest  of  them 
all  — the  nakedest  assertion  of  the  monopolist 
platform:  —  "  \'ou  live,  not  for  yourself,  hut 
wholly  and  solely  for  me.  I  (lisreL;ard  your 
claims  to  your  own  body  and  soul,  and  use  you 
as  my  chattel."  That  worst  form  has  died. 
It  withered  away  before  the  moral  indignation 
even  of  existing;  humanity.  We  have  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  one  dragon  slain,  of  knowing 
that  one  monoj)olist  instinct  at  least  is  now 
fairly  bred  out  of  us. 

Last,  and  hardest  of  all  to  eradicate  in  our 
midst,  comes  the  monojooly  of  the  human  heart, 
which  is  known  as  riiarriage.  Ikised  upon  the 
primitive  habit  of  felling  the  woman  with  a  blow, 
stunning  her  by  repeated  strokes  of  the  club 
oi"  spear,  and  dragging  her  off  l)y  the  hair  of 
her  head  as  a  slave  to  her  cai)tor's  hut  or  rock- 
shelter,  this  ugly  and  barbaric  form  of  serfdom 
has  come  in  our  own  time  by  some  strange 
caj)rice  to  be  reganled  as  of  i)ositively  ilivine 
origin.  The  Man  says  now  to  himself,  "This 
woman  is  mine.  Law  and  the  Church  have 
bestowed  her  on  me.  IMine  for  better,  for 
worse;  mine,  drunk  or  sober.  If  she  ventures 
to  have  a  heart  or  a  will  of  her  own,  \voe  betide 
her!      I   ha\e  tabooed   her  for  life:   let  any  other 


TIIK    \V(  (MAX    WHO    DII). 


177 


man  touch  her,  Icf;  hci  .^o  imich  as  cast  eyes  on 
any  other  man  to  aihnire  or  desire  him — and, 
knife,  (la<;<z:er,  or  hiw-court,  they  shall  hoth  of 
them  answer  for  it."  There  you  have  in  all  its 
native  deformity  another  monopcdist  instinct  — 
the  deepest-seated  of  all,  the  .grimmest,  the 
most  vindictive.  "She  is  not  yours,"  says  the 
moral  philosopher  of  the  new  dispensation; 
"she  is  her  own;  release  her!  The  Turk  hales 
his  offendin--  slave,  sews  her  up  in  a  sack,  and 
casts  her  quick  into  the  eddying;  Hosphorus. 
The  Christian  I'JiL;lishman,  with  more  lin-er- 
in<;-  torture,  sets  sj)ies  on  her  life,  drains  what 
he  thinks  Ium*  shame  before  a  pryinic  court,  and 
divorces  her  with  cotUumely.  All  this  is  mo- 
nopoly, and  essentially  slavery.  Mankind  must 
outlive  it  on  its  way  up  U)  civilization." 

And  then  the  Woman,  t!ius  taui;ht  by  her 
lords,  has  he-un  to  retort  in  these  latter  days 
by  endeavoriuLC  to  enslave  the  Man  in  return. 
Unable  to  conceive  the  bare  idea  of  freedom  for 
both  sexes  alike,  she  seeks  equality  in  an  equal 
slavery.  That  she  will  never  achieve,  'i'he 
future  is  to  the  free.  We  have  transcended 
serfdom.  Women  shall  henceforth  be  the 
equals  o(  men,  not  by  levellini;-  down,  but  by 
levelling;  up;  not  by  fetterin.i,^  the  man,  but 
by  elevatini;-,  emancipatin.L;.  unshackliuL;-  the 
woman. 


ii' 


178 


Tni'.    WOMAN    WHO    DID, 


All  this  Ilcrnniiia  knew  well.  All  these  thini^s 
she  turned  f)ver  in  her  mind  by  herstdf  on  the 
cvenin;;  of  the  day  when  Harvey  Kynaston  canic 
to  tell  hiT  of  his  ai)|)r()aehin,L;-  niarriai^e.  Why, 
then,  did  she  feel  it  to  some  extent  a  disap- 
l)ointment?  Why  so  flat  at  his  hap/piiu-ss? 
Partly,  she  said  to  heiself,  because  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  live  down  in  asin;j;le  ;;eneration  the  jeal- 
ousies and  distrusts  en^L^endered  in  our  heaits  by 
so  matiy  a.L;es  of  harem  life.  lUit  more  still, 
she  honestly  believed,  because  it  is  hard  to  be 
a  free  soul  in  an  enslaved  community.  No  unit 
can  Vvholly  sever  itself  from  the  social  organism 
of  which  it  is  a  corpuscle.  If  all  the  world 
were  like  herself,  her  lot  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent. Affection  would  have  l)een  free;  her 
yearnings  for  sympathy  wouUl  have  been  fdled 
to  the  full  by  Harvey  Kynaston  or  some  other. 
As  it  was,  she  had  but  that  one  little  fraction 
of  a  man  friend  to  solace  her;  to  resign  him 
altoL;ether  to  another  woman,  leaving'  herself 
bankrupt  of  love,  was  indeed  a  bitter  tried  to 
her. 

Yet  for  her  piinciples'  sake  and  Dolly's,  she 
never  let  Harvey  Kynaston  or  his  wife  suspect 
it,  as  huiL;  as  she  lived,  she  was  a  true  and 
earnest  friend  at  all  times  to  both  of  them. 


Tine    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


179 


xviir. 


Mkaxwhif-E,  Dolores  was  growing  up  to  woman's 
estate.  And  she  was  grijwing  into  a  tall,  a 
graceful,  an  excjuisitely  beautiful  woman. 

Yet  in  some  ways  lleruMuia  had  reasoii  to  be 
dissatisfied  with  her  daughter's  develi)j)ment. 
Day  by  day  she  watched  for  signs  of  the  ex- 
pected apostolate.  Was  Dolores  pressing  for- 
ward to  the  mark  for  the  prize  of  her  high 
calling?  Her  mother  half  doubted  it.  Slowly 
and  regretfully,  as  the  growing  girl  ap[)roached 
the  years  when  she  might  be  expected  to  think 
for  herself,  Ilerminia  began  to  i)erceive  that 
the  child  of  so  many  hoj)es,  of  so  many  aspi- 
rations, the  child  i)re-destined  to  regenerate 
humanity,  was  thinking  for  herself — in  a  retro- 
grade direction.  Incredible  as  it  seemed  to 
Ilerminia,  in  the  daughter  of  such  a  father  and 
such  a  mother,  Dolores'  ideas  —  nay,  worse  her 
ideals  —  were  essentially  commonplace.  Not 
that  she  had  much  opportunity  of  imbibing 
common[)lace  opinions  from  any  outside  source; 
she   redeveloped   them   from    within    by  a   pure 


i8o 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


effort   ot    atavism.      She    had    rcvirtcd   to    lower 
types.      .She  had  thrown  baek  to  the  I'hilistiiie. 

Heredity  of  mental  and  moral  (pudities  is  a 
precarious  matter.  I'hese  tliin.;s  lie,  as  it  were, 
on  the  topni(»st  plane  of  character;  they  smack 
of  the  individual,  and  are  therefore  far  less 
likely  to  i)ersist  in  offspring-  than  the  deeper- 
seated  and  b  Jtter-established  peculiarities  of 
the  family,  the  clan,  the  race,  or  the  species. 
They  are  idiosyiKM'atic.  Indeetl,  when  we  re- 
member how  <;reatly  the  mental  and  moral 
faculties  tliffer  from  brother  to  brother,  the 
product  (»f  the  satne  two  {)arental  factors,  can 
we  wonder  that  they  differ  much  more  from 
father  to  son,  the  product  of  one  like  factor 
alone,  diluted  by  the  addition  of  a  relatively 
unknown  (piality,  the  matern;d  inlluence.'*  How- 
ever this  may  be,  at  any  rate,  Dolores  early 
began  to  strike  out  for  lierself  all  the  mo  t 
ordinary  aad  stereotyped  o[dnions  of  l^ritish 
respectability.  It  seemeil  as  if  they  sprang  up 
in  her  by  unmitigated  reversion.  wShe  had 
never  heard  in  the  society  of  her  mother's  lodg- 
ings any  but  the  freest  and  most  rational  ideas; 
yet  she  herself  seemed  to  hark  back,  of  internal 
congruity,  to  the  lower  and  \  ulgarer  moral  plane 
of  her  remoter  anccstrv.  .She  showed  her  indi- 
viduality only  by  evoking  for  herself  all  the 
threadbare  [)latitudes  of  ordinary  convention. 


THF    WdMAN'    WHO    DID. 


I8i 


Moreover,  it  is  not  parents  who  have  most  to 
do  with  inouldiii-  tlic  sjnlinuiUs  and  .jjinions 
of  their  ehildren.  iMoin  the  be-innin-,  Dolly 
thou<,dit  hv-tter  of  the  landlady's  views  and 
ideas  than  of  her  mother's.  When  she  went  to 
school,  she  considered  the  moral  standpoint  (  f 
the  ether  <;irls  a  .-;reat  deal  r^ore  sensible 
than  the  moral  standjxtint  of  1 K  i  luinia's  at  t  ic. 
Siie  accri)tetl  the  beliefs  and  opinions  of  her 
schoollellows  because  they  were  natural  and 
con,i;enial  to  her  charactor.  In  sli.>rt,  she  had 
what  the  world  calls  common-sense:  she  re- 
volted from  the  unpractical  Utopianism  of  her 
mother. 

From  a  very  early  a-o,  indeed,  this  false  note 
in  Dolly  iiad  be-un  to  make  itself  heard. 
While  she  was  yet  cjuite  a  chiM.  Ilerminia 
noticed  with  a  certain  tender  but  shrinking; 
reL,Tet  that  Dolly  seemed  to  attach  undiK;  im- 
portance to  the  mere  U{)holsteries  and  e<|ui- 
pages  of  life, —  to  rank,  wealth,  title,  servants, 
carria.«,^cs,  jewelry.  At  first,  to  be  sure,  Iler- 
minia hoped  this  mii;ht  prove  but  the  passini,^ 
foolishness  of  childhood:  as  J)olly  f^rew  \\p, 
however,  it  became  clearer  each  day  that  the 
defect  was  in  the  ,L!:rain  —  that  Dolly's  whole 
mind  was  incural)ly  and  con^;enitally  aristo- 
cratic or  snobbish.  She  had  that  mean  admira- 
tion for  birth,  position,  adventitious  advantages, 


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182 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


i 

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i 
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}[        Hi 

i 


which  is  the  mark  of  the  beast  in  the  essentially 
aristocratic  or  sn()bl)ish  nature.  She  admired 
people  because  they  were  rich,  because  they 
were  hiu;h-placed.  because  they  were  courted, 
because  they  were  respected ;  not  because  they 
were  good,  because  they  were  wise,  because 
they  were  noble-natured,  because  they  were 
respect-worthy. 

]Uit  even  that  was  not  all.  In  time,  Ilerminia 
began  to  perceive  with  still  profounder  sorrow 
that  Dolly  had  no  spontaneous  care  or  regard 
for  righteousness.  Right  and  wrong  meant  to 
her  only  what  was  usual  and  the  opposite.  She 
seemed  incapable  of  considering  the  intrinsic 
nature  of  any  act  in  itself  apart  from  the  praise 
or  blame  meted  out  to  it  by  society.  In  short, 
she  was  sunk  in  the  same  ineffable  :dough  of 
moral  darkness  as  the  ordinary  inhabitant  of 
the  morass  of  London. 

To  Ilerminia  this  slow  discovery,  as  it 
dawned  bit  by  bit  upon  her,  put  the  final  thorn 
in  her  crown  of  martyrdom.  The  child  on 
whose  education  she  had  spent  so  much  pains, 
the  child  whose  success  in  the  deep  things 
of  life  was  to  atone  for  her  own  failure,  the 
child  who  was  born  to  be  the  apostle  of  free- 
dom to  her  sisters  in  darkness,  had  turned  out 
in  the  most  earnest  essentials  of  character  a 
complete  disappointment,  and  had  ruined  the 
last  hope  that  bound  her  to  existence. 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    BID. 


I  S3 


Bitterer  trials  remained.      Herminia  had  acted 
through  life  to  a  great  extent  with  the  idea  ever 
conscioLibly  present   to  her  mind  thai  she  must 
answer  to  Dolly  for  every  act  and  every  feeling. 
vSlie  had  done  all  she  did  with  a  deep  sense  of 
responsibility.     Now  it  loomed  by  degrees  upon 
her  aching  heart  that   Dolly's  verdict  would   in 
almost  every  case  be  a  hostile  one.     The  daugh- 
ter  was   growing    old    enough   to   question  and 
criticise    her   mother's    proceedings;    she    was 
beginning  to  understand  that  some  mysterious 
difference  marked  off   her   own  uncertain  posi- 
tion   in    life    from    the    solid    positi(jn    of    the 
children    who    surrounded    her  —  the    children 
born  under   those  special    circumstances  which 
alone  the  man-made  law  chooses  to  stamp  with 
the  seal  of   its   recognition.      Dolly's   curiosity 
was    shyly    aroused    as     to    her    dead    father's 
family.      Herminia   had  done   her   best   to   pre- 
pare betimes  for  this  inevitable  result   by  set- 
ting   before   her  chilu,    as    soon    as    she    coul- 
understand    it,   the   true   moral   doctrine   as    to 
the   duties    of    parenthood.      But    Dolly's    own 
development    rentlered    all    such    steps    futile. 
There    is    no    more    silly   and    persistent    error 
than  the  belief  of  parents  that  they  can   influ- 
ence to  any  appreciable  extent  the  moral   ideas 
and    impulses  of   their  children.      These  things 
have  their    springs   in   the  bases   of  character: 


184 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


4,; 


they  arc  the  flower  of  individuality;  and  they 
cannot  be  altered  or  affected  after  birth  by  the 
foolishness  of  preaching.  Train  up  a  child  in 
the  way  he  should  go,  and  when  he  is  old,  you 
will  find  soon  enough  he  will  choose  his  own 
course  for  himself  and  depart  from  it. 

Already  when  Dolly  was  a  toddling  little 
mite  and  met  her  mother's  father  in  the  church 
in  Marylebone,  it  had  struck  her  as  odd  that 
while  they  themselves  were  so  poor  and  ill-clad, 
her  grand})apa  should  besuchagrand  old  gentle- 
man of  such  a  dignified  aspect.  As  she  grew 
older  and  older,  and  began  to  understand  a 
little  more  the  world  she  lived  in,  she  won- 
dered yet  more  profoundly  how  it  could  hapi)en, 
if  her  grandpapa  was  indeed  the  Very  Rev- 
erend, the  Dean  of  Dunwdch,  that  her  mamma 
should  be  an  outcast  from  her  father's  church, 
and  scarcely  well  seen  in  the  best  carriage  com- 
pany. She  had  learnt  that  deans  are  rather 
grand  people  —  almost  as  much  so  as  admirals; 
that  they  wear  shovel-hats  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  common  ruck  of  -ectors ;  that  they 
lived  in  fine  houses  in  a  cathedral  close;  and 
that  they  drive  in  a  victoria  with  a  coachman 
in  livery.  So  much  essential  knowledge  of 
the  church  of  Christ  she  had  gained  for  herself 
by  personal  observation;  for  facts  like  these 
were    what     interested    Dolly.      She     could  n't 


imi 


■Hi 


■  hlf»yll<l«>l|l<iaiilBH)li^>l.l|llllll|HBI(||||M,-,l^.rrllri»- 


Tin",    WONfAN    WHO    Din. 


IS5 


understand,  then,  wliy  she  and  her  mother 
shonkl  li\'e  i)reeari<)us]y  in  a  vrvv  small  attie; 
should  never  be  visitetl  l)y  her  mother's  bi-others, 
one  of  whom  she  knew  to  be  a  Prebendary  of 
Old  Sarum,  while  the  other  she  saw  i^azetted  as 
a  Colonel  of  Artillery;  and  should  be  totally 
it^nored  by  her  mother's  sister,  ba'myntrude, 
who  lolled  in  a  landau  down  the  sunny  side  of 
Bond   Street. 

At  hrst,  indeed,  it  only  occurred  to  Dolly  that 
her  mother's  extreme  and  advanced  opinions  had 
induced  a  social  breach  between  herself  and  the 
orthodox  members  of  her  family.  ICven  that 
Dolly  resented  ;  why  should  mamma  hold  ideas 
of  her  own  which  shut  her  daui^hter  out  from 
the  worldly  advanta^L;-es  enjoyed  to  the  full  by 
the  rest  of  her  kindred?  Dolly  had  no  partic- 
ular reli*;"ious  ideas;  the  subject  did  n't  interest 
her;  and  besides,  she  thought  the  New  Testa- 
ment talked  about  rich  and  poor  in  much  the 
same  unpractical  nebuhjus  way  that  mamma 
herself  did  —  in  fact,  she  rei;-ar(led  it  with  sonn} 
veiled  contempt  as  a  rather  sentimental  radical 
publication.  But,  she  considered,  for  all  that, 
that  it  was  probaldy  true  enouf^di  as  far  as  the 
facts  and  the  theoloi^y  went ;  and  she  could  n't 
understand  why  a  person  like  mamma  should 
cut  herself  off  contumaciously  from  the  rest  of 
the  world  by  presuming  to  disbelieve  a  body  of 


1 80 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


doctrine  whicli  so  many  rich  and  vvcll-cjaitcrcd 
bishops  held  worthy  of  credence.  All  stylish 
society  accepted  the  tenets  of  the  Church  of 
Knf^dand.  lUit  in  time  it  began  to  occur  to 
her  that  there  might  be  some  deeper  and,  as 
she  herself  would  have  said,  more  disgraceful 
reason  for  her  mother's  alienation  from  so 
respectable  a  family.  For  to  Dolly,  that  was 
disgraceful  which  the  world  held  to  be  so. 
Things  in  themselves,  apart  from  the  world's 
word,  had  for  her  no  existence.  Step  by  step, 
as  she  grew  up  to  blushing  womanhood,  it 
began  to  strike  her  with  surprise  that  her  grand- 
father's name  had  been,  like  her  own,  Barton. 
"Did  you  marry  your  cousin,  mamma.''"  she 
asked  lierminia  one  day  quite  suddenly. 

And  lierminia,  flushing  scarlet  at  the  unex- 
pected question,  th(3  first  with  which  Dolly  had 
yet  ventured  to  approach  that  dangerous  quick- 
sand, replied  with  a  deadly  thrill,  *' No,  my  dar- 
ling.     Why  do  you  ask  me.-*  " 

"Because,"  Dolly  answered  abashed,  "I  just 
wanted  to  know  why  your  name  should  bo 
Barton,  the  same  as  poor  grandpapa's." 

riermijiia  didn't  dare  to  say  too  much  just 
then.  "Your  dear  father,"  she  answered  low, 
"was  not  related  to  me  in  any  way." 

Dolly  accepted  the  tone  as  closing  the  dis- 
cussion for  the  present;  but  the  episode  only 


MMi 


!^l>»  iuitWWWW»»BjiWCT;;itfp'i«iB<|(iwiW*J^^ 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


1R7 


Strengthened  her  underlying-  sense  of  a  mystery 
somewhere  in  the  matter  t(j  unravel. 

In  time,  llerminia  sent  her  ehild  to  a  day- 
school.  Thou.L,di  she  had  always  taught  Dolly 
her.ielf  as  well  as  she  was  id)le,  she  tVlt  it  a 
matter  of  duty,  as  her  daughter  grew  up,  to  give 
her  something  more  than  the  stray  ends  of  time 
in  a  busy  journalist's  moments  of  leisure.  At 
the  school,  where  Dolly  was  received  without 
question,  on  Miss  Smith- Water's  recommenda- 
tion, she  found  herself  thrown  much  into  the 
society  of  other  girls,  drawn  for  the  most  part 
from  the  narrowly  Mammon-worshipping  ranks 
of  London  professional  society.  Here,  her 
native  tendencies  towards  the  real  religion  of 
England,  the  united  worship  of  Success  and 
Respectability,  were  encouraged  to  the  utmost. 
But  she  noticed  at  times  with  a  shy  shrinking 
that  some  few  of  the  girls  had  heard  vague 
rumors  about  her  mother  as  a  most  equivocal 
person,  who  didn't  accept  all  the  current  super- 
stition.s,  and  were  curious  to  ask  her  questions 
as  to  her  family  and  antecedents.  Crimson 
with  shame,  Dolly  parried  such  enquiries  as 
best  she  could;  but  she  longed  all  the  more 
herself  to  pierce  this  dim  mystery.  Was  it  a 
runaway  match.?  —  with  the  groom,  perhaps,  or 
the  footman.?  Only  the  natural  shamefacedness 
of  a  budding  girl  in  prying  into  her  mother's 


J 


1 88 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


most  domestic  secrets  prevented  Dolores  from 
asking  lleiininia  some  day  point-blank  all  about 
it. 

But  she  was  gradually  becoming  aware  that 
some  strange  atmos})here  of  ^oubt  surrounded 
her  birth  and  her  motlier's  history.  It  filled 
her  with  sensitive  fears  and  self-conscious  hes- 
itations. 

And  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  Dolly  never 
really  returned  her  mother's  profound  affec^ 
tion.  It  is  often  so.  The  love  which  parents 
lavish  upon  their  children,  the  children  repay, 
not  to  parents  tlv.'mselves,  but  to  tlie  next 
generation.  Only  when  we  become  fathers 
or  mt^thers  in  our  turn  do  we  learn  what  our 
fathers  and  mothers  have  done  lor  us.  Thus 
it  was  with  Dolly.  When  once  the  first  period 
of  childish  dependence  was  over,  she  legarded 
Herminia   with    a   smoulderinir   distrust    and    a 

tin 

secret  dislike  that  concealed  itself  beneath  a 
mask  of  unfelt  caresses.  In  her  heart  of  hearts, 
she  owed  her  mother  a  grudge  for  not  having 
put  her  in  a  position  in  life  where  she  could 
drive  in  a  carriage  with  a  snarling  pug  and  a 
clipped  French  poodle,  like  Aunt  Ermyntrude's 
children.  She  grew  up,  smarting  under  a  sullen 
sense  of  injustice,  all  the  deeper  because  she 
was  compelled  to  stifle  it  in  the  profoundcst 
recesses  of  her  own  heart. 


-"  vmMrsm-tmmoiii-Mf'i'vttmnirK*-! 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


189 


XIX. 


When  Dolly  was  seventeen,  a  pink  wild  rose 
just  unrolling  its  petals,  a  very  great  event 
occurred  in  her  history.  She  received  an  invi- 
tation to  go  and  stop  with  some  friends  in  the 
country. 

The  poor  child's  life  had  been  in  a  sense  so 
uneventful  that  t.ie  bare  prospect  of  this  visit 
filled  her  soul  beforehand  with  tremulous  antic- 
ipation. To  be  sure,  Dolly  l^arton  had  always 
lived  in  the  midmost  centre  of  the  Movement 
in  London,  she  had  known  authors,  artists, 
socialists,  the  cream  of  our  race;  she  had  been 
brought  up  in  close  intercourse  with  the  men 
and  women  who  are  engaged  in  revolutionizing 
and  remodelling  humanity.  ]^ut  this  verv  fact 
that  she  had  always  lived  in  the  Thick  of  Things 
made  a  change  to  the  Thin  of  Things  only  by  so 
much  the  more  delicious  and  enchanting.  Not 
that  Dolores  had  not  seen  a  great  deal,  too,  of 
the  country.  Poor  as  they  were,  her  mother 
had  taken  her  to  cheap  little  seaside  nooks  for 
a  week  or  two  of  each  summer;  she  had  made 


i!y 


190 


TIIK   Wf)MAN   WHO    DID 


pi li;r images  almost  every  Sunday  in  spring  or 
autumn  to  Leilli  Hill  or  ]\Iai)le(lurham ;  she 
had  even  strained  hi-r  scanty  resources  to  tlic 
utmost  to  afford  Dolly  an  occasional  outing  in 
the  Ardennes  or  in  Normandy.  lUit  what  gave 
supreme  importance  to  this  coming  visit  was 
the  special  fact  that  Dolly  was  now  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  to  find  herself  "  in  society." 

Among  the  friends  she  had  picked  up  at  lier 
Marylebone  day-school  were  two  west-country 
girls,  private  boarders  of  the  head-mistress's, 
who  came  from  the  neighborhood  of  Combe 
Neville  in  Dorset.  Their  name  was  Compson, 
and  their  father  was  rector  of  their  native  vil- 
lage, Upcombe.  Dolly  liked  them  very  much, 
and  was  proud  of  their  acquaintance,  because 
they  were  reckoned  about  the  most  distinguished 
pupils  in  the  school,  their  mother  being  the 
niece  of  a  local  viscount.  Among  girls  in 
middle-class  London  sets,  even  so  remote  a 
connection  with  the  title-bearing  classes  is 
counted  for  a  distinction.  So  when  Winnie 
Compson  asked  Dolly  to  go  and  stop  with  her 
at  her  father's  rectory  during  three  whole  weeks 
of  the  summer  holidays,  Dolly  felt  that  now 
at  last  by  pure  force  of  native  worth  she  was 
rising  to  her  natural  position  in  society.  It 
flattered  her  that  Winnie  should  select  her  for 
such  an  honor. 


Si 


■BBl 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


191 


The  preparations  for  that  visit  cost  Dolly 
some  weeks  of  thou^i^ht  aiul  effort.  The  occa- 
sion demanded  it.  She  was  afraid  she  had  no 
frocks  ^i^ood  enouL;h  for  such  a  i;rand  house  as 
the  Compsons'.  "(jrand"  was  indeed  a  fav- 
orite epithet  of  Dolly's;  she  applied  it  im})ar- 
tially  to  everything  which  had  to  do,  as  she 
conceived,  with  the  life  of  the  propertied  and 
privile<^ed  classes.  It  was  a  word  at  once  of 
cherished  and  revered  meaning  —  the  shil)boKth 
of  her  religion.  It  implied  to  her  mind  some- 
thing remote  and  unapproachable,  yet  to  be 
earnestly  striven  after  with  all  the  forces  at  her 
disposal.  Even  Herminia  herself  stretched  a 
point  in  favor  of  an  occasion  which  she  could 
plainly  see  Dolly  regarded  as  so  important;  she 
managed  to  indulge  her  darling  in  a  cou[)le  of 
dainty  new  afternoon  dresses,  which  touched  for 
her  soul  the  very  utmost  verge  of  allowable  lux- 
ury. The  materials  were  oriental ;  the  cut  was 
the  dressmaker's  —  not  home-built,  as  usual. 
Dolly  looked  so  brave  in  them,  with  her  rich 
chestnut  hair  and  her  creamy  complexion,  — a 
touch,  Herminia  thought,  of  her  Italian  birth- 
place,—  that  the  mother's  full  heart  leapt  up  to 
look  at  her.  It  almost  made  Herminia  wish  she 
was  rich  —  and  anti-social,  like  the  rich  people 
' —  in  order  that  she  might  be  able  to  do  ample 
justice  to  the  exquisite  grace  of  Dolly's  unfold- 


192 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


■  'i 


I    ^ 


ill,:;  fi,L;i!re.  Tall,  lissome,  supple,  clear  of  limb 
and  liL;ht  of  ioolstep,  she  was  indeed  a  girl  any 
nKJther  might  have  been  i)roiid  of. 

On  the  day  she  left  London,  Herminia 
thought  to  herself  she  had  never  seen  her  child 
look  so  absolutely  lovely.  The  unwonted  unicjn 
of  blue  eyes  with  that  olive-gray  skin  gave  a 
tinge  of  wayward  shyness  to  her  girlish  beauty. 
The  golden  locks  had  ripened  to  nut-brown,  but 
still  caught  stray  gleams  of  nestling  sunlight. 
'T  was  with  a  foreboding  regret  that  Herminia 
kissed  Dolly  on  both  peach-bloom  cheeks  at 
parting.  She  almost  fancied  her  child  must  be 
slipping  from  her  motherly  grasp  when  she 
went  off  so  blithely  to  visit  these  unknown 
friends,  away  down  in  Dorsetshire.  Yet  Dolly 
had  so  few  amusements  of  the  sort  young  girls 
require  that  Herminia  was  overjoyed  this 
opportunity  should  have  come  to  her.  She 
reproached  herself  not  a  little  in  her  sensitive 
heart  for  even  feeling  sad  at  Dolly's  joyous 
departure.  Yet  to  Dolly  it  was  a  delight  to 
escape  from  the  atmosphere  of  Herminia's 
lodgings.      Those  calm  heights  chilled  her. 

The  Compsons'  house  was  c^uite  as  "grand"  in 
the  reality  as  Dolly  had  imagined  it.  There 
was  a  man-servant  in  a  white  tie  to  wait  at 
table,  and  the  family  dressed  every  evening  for 
dinner.     Yet,  much  to  her  surprise,  Dolly  found 


»«MI«fe»)<«l.;<»w.^*  »=-" .. 


'llli:   WOMAN'    WHO    1)11). 


'93 


irnm  tiic  first  the  i^randcur  tlid  not  in  tlic  least 
incommode  her.  On  tlie  contiai\',  she  enjoyed 
it.  She  felt  forthwith  she  was  to  the  manner 
born.  This  was  clearly  the  life  she  was  intended 
by  nature  to  live,  and  mi-;ht  actually  have  been 
livin^^  —  she,  the  L,aanddauL;-hter  of  so  .-^'rand  a 
man  as  the  late  Dean  of  Dunwich — had  it 
not  been  for  ]^oor  Mamma's  ridiculous  fancies. 
Mamma  was  so  faddy !  JJefore  Dolly  had  s[)ent 
three  whole  days  at  the  rectory,  she  talked  just 
as  the  Compsons  did;  she  picked  U[)  by  [)ure 
instinct  the  territorial  slani^  of  the  county 
families.  One  would  have  thou_i;ht,  to  hear 
her  discourse,  she  had  dressed  for  dinner  every 
night  of  her  life,  and  passed  her  days  in  the 
society  of  the  beneficed  clergy. 

Ikit  even  that  did  not  exhaust  the  charm  of 
Upcombe  for  D(dly.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  she  saw  something  of  men,— real  men,  with 
horses  and  dogs  and  guns,— men  who  went  out 
partridge  shooting  in  the  season  and  rode  to 
hounds  across  country,  not  the  pale  abstractions 
of  cultured  humanity  who  attended  the  Fabian 
Society  meetings  or  wrote  things  called  articles 
in  the  London  papers.  Her  mother's  friends 
wore  soft  felt  hats  and  limj)  woollen  collars; 
these  real  men  were  richly  clad  in  tweed  suits 
and  fine  linen.  Dolly  was  charmed  with  them 
all,  but  especially  with  one  handsome  and  manly 

13 


194 


TllK   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


n 


youn^  follow  named  WaltcM*  Brydgcs,  the  step- 
son and  ward  of  a  neighboring  parson.  *'Ifow 
you  talked  with  him  at  tennis  to-day!  "  Winnie 
Compson  said  to  her  friend,  as  they  sat  on  the 
edge  of  Dolly's  i^ed  one  evening.  *' He  seemed 
quite  taken  with  you." 

A  pink  siM)t  of  jileasure  glowed  on  Dolly's 
round  cheek  to  think  that  a  real  young  man,  in 
good  society,  wht)m  she  met  at  so  grand  a  house 
as  the  Compsons',  should  seem  to  be  quite  taken 
with  her. 

"Who  is  he,  Winnie.^"  she  asked,  trying  to 
look  less  self-conscious.  **Hes  extremely 
good-looking. " 

"Oh,  he's  Air.  Ilawkshaw's  stepson,  over  at 
Combe  Mary,"  Winnie  answered  witii  -^  nod. 
"  Mr.  Ilawkshaw  's  the  vicar  there  till  Mamma's 
ne])hew  is  ready  to  take  the  living  —  what  they 
call  a  warming-pan.  liut  Walter  ]5rydges  is 
Mrs.  Ilawkshaw's  son  by  her  first  husband. 
Old  Mr.  Brydges  was  the  squire  of  Combe 
Mary,  and  Walter's  his  only  child.  He's  very 
well  off.  Vou  might  do  w(M'se,  dear.  He  's 
considered  cjuite  a  catch  down  in  this  part  of 
the  country." 

"How  old  is  he.^"  Dolly  asked,  innocently 
enough,  standing  u[)  by  the  bedside  in  her 
dainty  white  nightgown.  lUit  Winnie  caught 
at  her  meaning  with  the  preternatural  sharpness 


'^S!»fri.#»'4<i»»««  I  iilw<l|i|WrWiUIWIi»nw»»'B»*ta'.»»-vt 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    I)H). 


195 


of  the  girl  biou-lu  up  in  iniinctiiatc  contact  with 
tlic  hindcd  interest.  "Oh,  he 's  of  a-e,"  she 
answered  quickly,  with  a  knowing-  nod.  "  lie  's 
come  into  the  property;  he  has  nobody  on  earth 
but  himself  to  consult  about  his  domestic 
arrangements. " 

Dolly  was  youni; ;  Dolly  was  pretty;  Dolly's 
smile  won  the  world;  JJolly  was  still  at  the 
sweetest  and  most  su.scei)tible  of  a^cs.  Waller 
Jirydges  was  well  off;  Walter  J^ryd,i;es  was 
handsome;  Walter  l^ryd^^es  haii  all  tlie  -lamour 
of  a  lantled  estate,  anil  an  Oxford  education. 
He  was  a  young  Greek  god  in  a  Norfolk  she)ot- 
ing-jacket.  IVIoreover,  he  was  a  really  good  and 
pleasant  young  fellow.  \\  iiat  wonder,  there- 
fore, if  before  a  week  was  out,  Dolly  was  very 
really  and  seriously  in  love  with  him.?  And 
what  wonder  if  Walter  lirydges  in  turn,  caught 
by  that  maitlen  glance,  was  in  love  with  Dolly.? 
He  had  every  excuse,  for  she  was  lithe,  and 
beautiful,  and  a  joyous  com'panion;  besides 
being,  as  the  lady's  maid  justly  remarked,  a 
perfect   lady. 

One  day,  after  Dolly  had  been  a  fortnight  at 
Upcombe,  the  Compsons  gave  a  picnic  in  the 
wild  Combe  undercliff.  'T  is  a  broken  wall  of 
chalk,  tunibled  picturescpiely  about  in  huge 
shattered  masses,  and  deli^dously  overgrown 
with  ferns  and   blackthorn  antl  golden   clusters 


196 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


i'^  ! 


of  closo-crceping  rock-rose.  Mazy  paths  thread 
tani^led  labyrinths  of  fallen  rock,  or  wind  round 
tall  clumps  of  holly-bush  and  bramble.  They 
lighted  their  fire  under  the  lee  of  one  such 
buttress  of  broken  cliff,  whose  summit  was  fes- 
tooned with  long  sprays  of  clematis,  or  "old 
man's  beard,"  as  the  common  west-country 
name  expressively  phrases  it.  Thistledown 
hovered  on  the  basking  air.  There  they  sat 
and  drank  their  tea,  couched  on  beds  of  fern 
or  proi)ped  firm  against  the  rock;  and  when 
tea  was  over,  they  wandered  off,  two  and  two, 
ostensibly  for  nothing,  but  really  for  the  true 
business  of  the  picnic  —  to  afford  the  young 
men  and  maidens  of  the  group  some  chance  of 
enjoying,  unspied,  one  another's  society. 

Dolly  and  Walter  l^rydges  strolled  off  by 
themselves  toward  the  rocky  shore.  There 
Walter  showed  her  where  a  brook  bid)bU!d 
clear  from  the  fountain-head;  by  its  brink,  blue 
veronicas  grew,  and  tall  yellow  loosestrife,  and 
tasselled  purple  heads  of  great  iMiglish  eupatory. 
Bending  down  to  the  stream  he  picked  a  little 
bunch  of  forget-me-nots,  and  handed  them  to 
her.  Dolly  pretended  unconsciously  to  pull  the 
dainty  blossoms  to  pieces,  as  she  sat  on  the 
clay  bank  hard  by  and  talked  with  him.  "Is 
that  how  you  treat  my  poor  llowers.''"  Walter 
asked,  looking  askance  at  her. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO   DID. 


197 


Dolly  glanced  down,  and  drew  back  suddenly. 
"Oh,  pour  little  things!"  she  cried,  with  a 
quick  droop  of  her  long  lashes.  "I  wasn't 
thinking  what  I  did."  And  she  darted  a  shy 
glance  at  him.  "If  I  'd  remembered  they  were 
forget-me-nots,  I  don't  think  I  could  have  done 
it." 

She  looked  so  sweet  and  pure  in  her  budding 
innocence,  like  a  half -blown  waterdily,  that  the 
young  man,  already  mure  than  two-thirds  in 
love,  was  instantly  captivated.  *' because  tlicy 
were  forget-me-nuts,  or  because  they  were  mine. 
Miss  Barton.?"  he  asked  softly,  all  timorous- 
ness. 

"Perhaps  a  little  of  both,"  the  girl  answered, 
gazing  down,  and  blushing  at  each  word  a  still 
deeper  crimson. 

The  blush  showed  sweet  on  that  translucent 
skin.  Walter  turned  to  her  with  a  sudden 
impulse.  "And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
them  junu?''  he  enquired,  holding  his  breath  for 
joy  and  half -suppressed  eagerness. 

Dolly  hesitated  a  moment  with  genuine 
moLlesty.  Then  her  liking  for  the  welbknit 
young  man  overcame  her.  With  a  frightened 
smile  her  hand  stole  to  her  bodice;  she  fixed 
them  in  her  bosom.  "Will  that  do.^*"  she 
asked   timidly. 

"Yes,  that  7^/7/ do, "  the  young  man  answered, 


198 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


bending  forward  and  seizing  her  soft  fingers  in 
his  own.  "That  will  do  very  well.  And,  Miss 
Barton  —  Dolores  —  I  take  it  as  a  sign  you 
don't  wholly  dislike  me.'* 

"I  like  you  very  much,"  Dolly  answered  in  a 
low  voice,  pulling  a  rock-rose  from  a  cleft  and 
tearing  it  nervously  to  })ieces. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Dolly.?"  the  young  man 
insisted. 

Dolly  turned  her  glance  to  him  tenderly,  then 
withdrew  it  in  haste.  "  I  think  I  niigJit,  in 
time,"  she  answered  very  slowly. 

"Then  you  will  be  mine,  mine,  mine.-^" 
Walter  cried   in  an  ecstasy. 

Dolly  bent  her  pretty  head  in  reluctant 
assent,  with  a  torrent  of  inner  joy.  The  sun 
flashed  in  her  chestnut  hair.  The  triumph  of 
that  moment  was  to  her  inexpressible. 

But  as  for  Walter  Brydges,  he  seized  the 
blushing  face  boldly  in  his  two  brown  hands, 
and  imjirinted  upon  it  at  once  three  resjiectful 
kisses.  Then  he  drew  back,  half-terrified  at 
his  own  temerity. 


,r***rfl»V««!HW«^<I*W|»S 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


199 


XX. 


From  that  day  forth  it  was  understood  at 
Upcombe  that  Dolly  Barton  was  informally 
enga^^ed  to  Walter  Brydges.  Their  betrothal 
would  be  announced  in  the  "Mornin<r  Post  "  — 
"We  learn  that  a  marriage  has  been  arranged," 
and  so  forth  —  as  soon  as  the  chosen  bride  had 
returned  to  town,  and  communicated  the  great 
news  in  person  to  her  motlier.  h'or  reasons  of 
her  own,  Dolly  preferred  this  delay;  she  did  n't 
wish  to  write  on  the  subject  to  Ilerminia. 
Would  mamma  ro  and  spoil  it  all?  she  won- 
dered.     It  would  be  just  like  her. 

The  remaining  week  of  her  stay  at  the  rec- 
tory was  a  golden  dream  of  delight  to  Dolly. 
Beyond  even  the  natural  ecstasy  of  first  love, 
the  natural  triumph  of  a  brilliant  engagement, 
what  visions  of  untold  splendor  dance  I  hourly, 
day  and  night,  before  her  dazzled  eyes!  What 
masques  of  magnificence!  county  balls,  garden 
parties!  It  was  heaven  to  L\)lly.  She  was 
going  to  be  grander  than  her  grandest  day* 
dream. 


200 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


'.  * 


.,  t 


I  ;. 


Walter  took  her  across  one  afternoon  to  Combe 
Mary,  and  introduced  her  in  due  form  to  his 
mother  and  his  step-father,  who  found  the  pink- 
and-white  girl  "so  very  young,"  but  saw  no 
other  grave  fault  in  her.  He  'n'en  escorted  her 
over  the  ancestral  home  of  the  masters  of  Combe 
Mary,  in  which  they  were  both  to  live,  and 
which  the  young  squire  had  left  vacant  of  set 
purpose  till  he  found  a  wife  to  his  mind  to  fill 
it.  'Twas  the  ideal  crystallized.  Rooks  cawed 
from  the  high  elms ;  ivy  clambered  to  the  gables ; 
the  tower  of  the  villaiie  church  closed  the  vista 
through  the  avenue.  The  cup  of  Dolly's  happi- 
ness was  full  to  the  brim.  She  was  to  dwell  in 
a  manor-house  with  livery  servants  of  her  own, 
and  to  dress  for  dinner  every  night  of  her 
existence. 

On  the  very  last  evening  of  her  stay  in  Dorset- 
shire, Walter  came  round  to  see  her.  Mrs. 
Compson  and  the  girls  managed  to  keep  d-'s- 
erectly  out  of  the  young  people's  way;  the  rec- 
tor was  in  his  study  preparing  his  Sunday 
sermon,  which  arduous  intellectual  effort  was 
supposed  to  engage  his  close  attention  for  five 
hours  or  so  weekly.  Not  a  mouse  interrupted. 
So  Dolly  and  her  lover  had  the  field  to  them- 
selves from  eight  to  ter.  in  the  rectory  drawing- 
room. 

1^'rom    the   first   moment    of   Walter's  entry, 


..'*i«ri.)i*!«i.aw5^--V' 


'  miiK-  i'^n'y»i'if^m9ftsm^j^k'Ui^'ii''^y^->*''n'^'''>i^ 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    ill). 


20 1 


Dolly  was  dimly  aware,  womanlike,  of  some- 
thing amiss,  something  altered  in  his  manner. 
Not,  indeed,  that  her  lover  was  less  affectionate 
or  less  tender  than  Uhual,  —  if  anything  he 
seemed  rather  more  so;  but  his  talk  w^as  embar- 
rassed, i^-e-oceupied,  spasmodic.  He  spoke  by 
fits  and  starts,  and  seemed  to  hold  back  some- 
thing. Uolly  taxed  him  witli  it  at  last.  Walter 
tried  to  put  it  off  u})on  her  approaching  depart- 
ure. lUit  he  was  an  honest  young  man,  and  so 
bad  an  actor  that  Dollv,  witli  her  keen  feminine 
intuitions,  at  once  detected  him.  *'  It  's  more 
than  that,"  she  said,  all  regret,  leaning  forward 
with  a  quick-gathering  moisture  in  her  eye,  for 
she  really  loved  him.  "It's  more  than  that, 
Walter.  You  've  heard  something  somewhere 
that  you  don't  want  to  tell  me." 

Walter's  color  changed  at  once.  He  was  a 
man,  and  therefore  but  a  poor  dissembler, 
"Well,  nothing  very  much,"  he  admitted,  awk- 
wardly. 

Dolly  drew  back  like  one  stung;  her  heart 
beat  fast.  "What  have  you  lieard.^  "  she  cried 
trembling;  "Walter,  Walter,  I  love  you !  You 
must  keep  nothing  back.  Tell  me  ;/(>u'  what  it 
is.      I  can  bear  to  hear  it." 

The  young  man  hesitated.  "  Only  something 
my  step-father  heard  from  a  friend  last  night," 
he    replied,     floundering    deeper    and    deeper. 


202 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


,;;  I. 


"Nothing  at  all  about  you,    darling.      Only — • 
well  —  about  your  family." 

Dolly's  face  was  red  as  fire.  A  lump  rose  in 
her  throat;  she  started  in  horror.  Then  he  had 
found  out  the  Truth.  He  had  probed  the 
Mystery. 

"Something  that  makes  you  sorry  you  prom- 
ised to  ma'"''y  me.''"  she  cried  aloud  in  her 
despair.  Heaven  faded  before  her  eyes.  What 
evil  trick  could  mamma  have  played  her.-* 

As  she  stood  there  that  moment  —  proud, 
crimson,  breathless  —  Walter  I5rydges  would 
have  married  her  if  her  father  had  been  a  tinker 
and  her  mother  a  gipsy  girl.  He  drew  her  tow- 
ard him  tenderly.  "No,  darling,"  he  cried, 
kissing  her,  for  he  was  a  chivalrous  young  man, 
as  he  understood  chivalry;  and  to  him  it  was 
indeed  a  most  cruel  blow  to  learn  that  his  future 
wife  was  born  out  of  lawful  wedlock.  "I'm 
proud  of  you;  I  love  you.  I  worship  the  very 
ground  your  sweet  feet  tread  on.  Nothing  on 
earth  could  make  me  anything  but  grateful  and 
thankful  for  the  gift  of  your  love  you  're  gracious 
enough  to  bestow  on  me." 

But  Dolly  drew  back  in  alarm.  Not  on  such 
terms  as  those.  She,  too,  had  her  pride;  she,  too, 
had  her  chivalry.  "No,  no,"  she  cried,  shrink- 
ing. "I  don't  know  what  it  is.  I  don't  know 
what   it   means.     But   till   I  've  gone   home   to 


.",%^pflV^JWft  'V#ystP*B"'' 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


203 


London  and  asked  about  it  from  mother,  —  oh, 
Walter,  we  two  are  no  Ioniser  engaged.  You 
are  free  from  your  promise." 

She  said  it  proudly;  she  said  it  bravely.  She 
said  it  with  womanly  grace  and  dignity.  Some- 
thing of  Ilerminia  shone  out  in  her  that  moment. 
No  man  should  ever  take  her  —  to  the  grandest 
home — unless  ne  took  her  at  her  full  worth, 
pleased  and  proud  to  win  her. 

Walter  soothed  and  coaxed ;  but  Dolores 
stood  firm.  Like  a  rock  in  the  sea,  no  assault 
could  move  her.  As  things  stood  at  present, 
she  cried,  they  were  no  longer  engaged.  After 
she  had  seen  her  mother  and  talked  it  all  over, 
she  would  write  to  him  once  more,  and  tell  him 
what  she  thought  of  it. 

And,  crimson  to  the  finger-tips  with  shame 
and  modesty,  she  rushed  from  his  presence  up  to 
her  own  dark  bed-room. 


204 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DID. 


XXI. 


,     1 


j<  :; 


Next  morning  early,  Dolly  left  Combe  Neville 
on  her  way  to  London.  When  she  reached  the 
station,  Walter  was  on  the  platform  with  a 
bunch  of  white  roses.  He  handed  them  to  her 
deferentially  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the  third- 
class  carriage;  and  so  sobered  was  Dolly  by  this 
great  misfortune  that  she  forgot  even  to  feel  a 
passing  pang  of  shame  that  Walter  should  see 
her  travel  in  that  humble  fashion.  "Remem- 
ber," he  whispered  in  her  ear,  as  the  train 
steamed  out,  "we  are  still  engaged;  I  hold  you 
to  your  promise." 

And  Dolly,  blushing  maidenly  shame  and  dis- 
tress, shook  her  head  decisively.  "Not  now," 
she  answered.  "I  must  wait  till  I  know  the 
truth.  It  has  always  been  kept  from  me.  And 
now  I  tl'/// know  it." 

She  had  not  slept  that  night.  All  the  way 
up  to  London,  she  kept  turning  her  doubt  over. 
The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  deeper  it  galled 
her.  Her  wrath  waxed  bitter  against  Herminia 
for    this    evil    turn    she    had    wrought.       The 


wimif-m-^  'rv>»v»iwxiiiitm^^jMM»,mmi><'-ii(>mm<if*>  -tjimi 


THE    WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


205 


smouldering  anger  of  years  blazed  forth  at 
last.  Had  she  blighted  her  daughter's  li'.e,  and 
spoiled  so  fair  a  future  by  obstinate  adherence 
to  those  preposterous  ideas  of  hers.-* 

Never  in  her  life  had  Dolly  loved  her  mother. 
At  best,  she  had  felt  towards  her  that  contempt- 
uous toleration  which   inferior  minds  often  ex- 
tend   to    higher    ones.       And    now  —  why,    she 
hated  her. 

In  London,  as  it  happened,  that  very  morn- 
ing, Herminia,  walking  across  Regent's  Park, 
had  fallen  in  with  Harvey  Kynaston,  and  their 
talk  had  turned  upon  this  self -same  problem. 

"  What  will  you  do  when  she  asks  you  about 
it,  as  she  must,  sooner  or  later?"  the  man 
inquired. 

And  Herminia,  smiling  that  serene  sweet 
smile  of  hers,  made  answer  at  once  without  a 
second's  hesitation,  "  I  shall  confess  the  whole 
tuth  to  her." 

"But  it  might  be  so  bad  for  her,"  Harvey 
Kynaston  went  on.  And  then  he  proceeded  to 
bring  up  in  detail  casuistic  objections  on  the 
score  of  a  young  girl's  modesty;  all  of  which 
fell  flat  on  He^minia's  more  honest  and  consis- 
tent temperament. 

**  I  believe  in  the  truth,"  she  said  simply; 
"and  I  'm  never  afraid  of  it.  I  don't  think  a 
lie,  or  even  a  suppression,  can  ever  be  good  in 


206 


THK   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


the  end  for  any  one.  The  Truth  shall  make  you 
Free.  That  one  principle  in  life  can  guide  one 
through  everything." 

In  the  evening,  when  Dolly  came  home,  her 
mother  ran  out  proudly  and  affectionately  to  kiss 
her.  But  Dolly  drew  back  her  face  with  a  gest 
ure  of  displeasure,  nay,  almost  of  shrinking. 
"  Not  now,  mother!  "  she  cried.  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  ask  you  about.  Till  I  know  the  truth, 
I  can  never  kiss  you." 

Herminia's  face  turned  deadly  white;  she 
knew  it  had  come  at  last.  But  still  she  never 
flinched.  "You  shall  hear  the  truth  from  me, 
darling,"  she  said,  with  a  gentle  touch.  "You 
have  always  heard  it." 

They  passed  under  the  doorway  and  up  the 
stairs  in  silence.  As  soon  as  they  were  in  the 
sitting-room,  Dolly  fronted  Herminia  fiercely. 
"Mother,"  she  cried,  with  the  air  of  a  wild 
creature  at  bay,  "  were  vou  married  to  my 
father?" 

Herminia's  cheek  blanched,  and  her  pale  lips 
quivered  as  she  nerved  herself  to  answer;  but 
she  answered  bravely,  "No,  darling,  I  was  not. 
It  has  always  been  contrary  to  my  principles  to 
marry. " 

"  Vour  principles!"  Dolores  echoed  in  a  tone 
of  ineffable  scorn.  "  Yo//r  principles !  Your 
principles!     All  my  life  has  been   sacrificed   to 


THE  WOMAN   WHO   DH). 


207 


you  and  your  principles!"  Then  she  turned 
on  her  madly  once  more.  "And  i^.^ho  was  my 
father?  "   she  burst  out  in  her  a<;ony. 

Herminia  never  paused.  She  must  tell  her 
the  truth.  **  Your  father's  name  was  Alan 
Merrick,"  she  answered,  steadying  herself  with 
one  hand  on  the  table,  "lie  died  at  Peru-ia 
before  you  were  born  there,  lie  was  a  son  of 
Sir  Anthony  Merrick,  the  great  doctor  in 
llarley  Street." 

The  worst  was  out.  Dolly  stood  still  and 
gasped.  Hot  horror  flooded  her  burning  cheeks. 
Illegitimate!  illegitimate!  Dishonored  from  her 
birth!  A  mark  for  every  cruel  tongue  to  aim 
at!  Born  in  shame  and  disgrace!  And  then, 
to  think  what  she  might  have  been,  but  for  her 
mother's  madness!  The  granddaughter  of  two 
such  great  men  in  their  way  as  the  Dean  of 
Dunwich  and   Sir  Anthony  Merrick. 

She  drew  back,  ail  aghast.  Shame  and  agony 
held  her.  Something  of  maiden  modesty  burned 
bright  in  her  cheek  and  down  her  very  neck. 
Red  waves  coursed  through  her.  How  on  earth 
after  this  could  she  face  Walter  Ikydges? 

"Mother,  mother!"  she  broke  out,  sobbing, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "oh,  what  have  you 
done?  What  have  you  done?  A  cruel,  cruel 
mother  you  have  been  to  me.  How  can  I  ever 
forgive  you  ?  " 


208 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


Uw 


M 


r^ilSf 


Herminia  gazed  at  her,  appalled.  It  was  a 
natural  tragedy.  Tlicre  was  no  way  out  of  it. 
She  coukl  n't  help  seizing  the  thing  at  once,  in 
a  lightning  flash  of  sympathy,  from  Dolly's  {)()int 
of  view,  too.  Quick  womanly  instinct  made  her 
heart  bleed  for  her  daughter's  manifest  shame 
and  horror. 

"Dolly,  Dolly,"  the  agonized  mother  cried, 
flinging  herself  upon  her  child's  mercy,  as  it 
were;  "Don't  be  hard  on  me;  don't  be  hard  on 
me!  My  darling,  how  could  I  ever  guess  you 
would  look  at  it  like  this.''  IIow  could  I  c\er 
guess  my  daughter  and  his  would  see  things 
for  herself  in  so  different  a  light  from  the  light 
we  saw  them  in  ?  " 

"You  had  no  right  to  bring  me  into  the  world 
at  all,"  Dolly  cried,  growing  fiercer  as  her 
mother  grew  more  unhappy.  "  If  you  did,  you 
should  have  put  me  on  au  equality  with  other 
people. " 

"Dolly,"  Herminia  moaned,  wringing  her 
hands  in  her  despair,  "my  child,  my  darling, 
how  I  have  loved  you!  how  I  have  watched  o\  er 
you!  Your  life  has  been  for  years  the  one  thing 
I  had  to  live  for.  I  dreamed  you  would  be  just 
such  another  one  as  myself.  Equal  \s\\\\  other 
people!  Why,  I  thought  I  was  giving  you  the 
noblest  heritage  living  woman  ever  yet  gave  the 
child  of    her  bosom.      I   tliought   you    would   be 


,tM''Bl(^'r.fi-^m>^ 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


209 


cr 


proud  of  it,  as  I  myself  would  have  been  proud. 
I  thou<^ht  you  would  accept  it  as  a  glorious 
birthright,  a  supreme  privilege.  How  could  I 
foresee  you  would  turn  aside  from  your  mother's 
creed?  How  could  I  anticipate  you  would  bo 
ashamed  of  being  the  first  free-born  woman  ever 
bcixotten  in  England.^  'T  was  a  blessing  I  meant 
to  give  you,  and  you  have  made  a  curse  of 
it." 

"  Vo7i  have  made  a  curse  of  it!"  Dolores  an- 
swered, rising  and  glaring  at  her.  "You  have 
blighted  my  life  for  me.  A  good  man  and  true 
was  going  to  make  me  his  wife.  After  this, 
how  can  T  dare  to  palm  myself  off  upon  him  ?  " 

She  swept  from  the  room.  Though  broken 
with  sorrow,  her  step  was  resolute.  Herminia 
followed  her  to  her  bed-room.  There  Dolly  sat 
long  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  crying  silently, 
silently,  and  rocking  herself  up  and  down  like 
one  mad  with  agony.  At  last,  in  one  fierce 
burst,  she  relieved  her  burdened  soul  by  pour- 
ing out  to  her  mother  the  whole  tale  of  her 
meeting  with  Walter  Brydges.  Though  she 
hated  her,  she  must  tell  her.  Herminia  lis- 
tened with  deep  shame.  It  brought  the  color 
back  into  her  own  pale  cheek  to  tliink  any  man 
should  deem  he  was  ]vjrforming  an  act  of  chival- 
rous self-devotion  in  marrying  Herminia  Barton's 
unlawful  daughter.      Alan  Merrick's  child  !     The 

14 


210 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    VU). 


child  of  so  many  hopes!  The  bahy  that  was 
born  to  regenerate  humanity! 

At  last,  in  a  dogged  way,  Dolly  rose  once 
more.     She  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket. 

"Where  arc  you  going?"  her  mother  asked, 
terrified. 

"I  am  going  out,"  Dolores  answered,  "to  the 
post,  to  telegra])h  to  him." 

She  worded  her  telegram  briefly  hut   ])roudly: 

"  My  mother  has  told  me  all.  I  understand  your 
feeling.  Our  arrangement  is  annulled.  Good-by. 
You  have  been   kind   t(>   me." 

An  hour  or  two  later,  a  return  telegram 
came :  — 


'*  Our  engagement  remains  exactly  as  it  was. 
Nothing  is  changed.  I  hold  you  to  your  promise. 
All  tenderest  messages.      Letter  follows." 

That  answer  calmed  Dolly's  mind  a  little. 
She  began  to  think  after  all,  —  if  Walter  still 
wanted  her, — she  loved  him  very  much;  she 
could  hardly  dismiss  him. 

When  she  rose  to  go  to  bed,  Herminia,  very 
wistful,  held  out  her  white  face  to  be  kissed  as 
usual.  She  held  it  out  tentatively.  Worlds 
trembled  in  the  balance;  but  Dolly  drew  herself 
back  w  ith  a  look  of  offended  dignity.     "  Never !  " 


'^^iim^m^-it»mMWf(ititKO(i^i!i^0if«s^Am^'^^'i,  -^s-ffm-t^amiMfi' 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


211 


was 


she  answered  in  a  firm  voice.  "Never  airaiii 
while  I  live.  Yuu  are  not  fit  to  receive  a  pure 
girl's  kisses." 

And  two  women  lay  awake  all  that  ensuini; 
night  sobbing  low  on  their  pillows  in  the  Mary- 
lebone  lodging-house. 


212 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    DID. 


XXII. 


It  was  half-past  nine  o'clock  next  morning 
when  the  man-servant  at  Sir  Anthony  Merrick's 
in  llarley  Street  brouj^ht  up  to  his  master's 
room  a  plain  hand-written  card  on  which  he 
read   the   name,    ''Dolores   Barton." 

"Does  the  <j,"irl  want  to  blackmail  me.'' "  Sir 
Anthony  thou<;ht  testily. 

The  great  doctor's  old  age  was  a  lonely  and 
a  sordid  one.  He  was  close  on  eighty  now,  but 
still  to  this  day  he  received  his  patients  from  ten 
to  one,  and  closed  his  shrivelled  hand  with  a 
clutch  on  their  guineas.  For  whom,  nobody 
knew.  Lady  Merrick  was  long  dead.  If  is 
daughters  were  well  married,  and  he  had  quar- 
relled with  their  husbands.  Of  his  two  younger 
sons,  one  had  gone  int(^  the  Fusiliers  and  been 
spear<'(l  at  Suakim;  the  other  had  broken  his 
neck  on  a  hunting-field  in  Warwickshire.  The 
old  man  lived  alone,  and  hugged  his  money- 
bags. They  were  the  one  thing  left  for  which 
he  seemed  to  retain  any  human  affection. 

So,  when  he  read  Dolly's  card,  being  by 
nature  suspicious,  he  felt  sure  the  child  had 
called  to  see  what  she  could  get  out  of  him. 


!*»Si(ffl.«,J?atwr*w»**s;w*i«VKfe!!**^^ 


THE   WOMAN   WHO   DU). 


213 


But  when  he  descended  to  the  consult iiiij;- 
room  with  stern  set  face,  iind  saw  a  beautiful 
girl  of  seventeen  awaitini;  him,  — a  tall  sunny- 
hairctl  girl,  with  Alan's  own  smile  and  Alan's 
own  eyes, —  he  grew  suddenly  aware  of  an  unex- 
pected interest.  The  sun  went  hack  on  the 
dial  of  his  life  for  thirty  years  or  thereabouts, 
and  Alan  himself  seemed  to  stand  before  him. 
Alan,  as  he  used  to  burst  in  for  his  holidays 
from  Winchester!  After  all,  this  pink  rosebud 
was  his  eldest  son's  only  daughter. 

Chestnut  hair,  pearly  teeth,  she  was  Alan  all 
over. 

Sir  Anthony  bowed  his  most  respectful  bow, 
with  old-fashioned  courtesy. 

"And  what  can  I  do  for  you,  young  lady?" 
he  asked  in   his  best   })rofessional  manner. 

"Grandfather,"  the  girl  broke  out,  blushing 
red  to  the  ears,  but  saying  it  out  none  the  less; 
"Grandfather,  I  'm  your  granddaughter,  Doloies 
Barton. " 

The  old  man  bowed  once  more,  a  most  defer- 
ential bow.  Strange  to  say,  when  he  saw  her, 
this  claim  of  blood    pleased  him. 

"So  I  sec,  my  child,"  he  answered.  "And 
what  do  you  want  with  me.'" 

"I  only  knew  it  last  night,"  Dolly  went  on, 
casting  down  those  blue  eyes  in  her  shamefaced 
embarrassment.  "  And  this  morning  .  .  .  I've 
come  to  implore  your  protection." 


■^  itc^-^mf^JS^f '*-*'ffi^  <:  r  ^fsa^n.-, 


214 


THE   WOMAN    WHO    DH). 


"That  *s  prompt,"  the  old  man  replied,  with  a 
curious  smile,  half  susi)icious,  half  satisfied. 
"From  whom,  my  little  one?"  And  his  hand 
caressed  her  shoulder. 

"  F'rom  my  mother,"  Dolly  answered,  hlushing 
still  deeper  crimson.  "  T^rom  the  mc*'her  who 
pui  this  injustice  ujion  me.  From  the  mother 
who,  by  her  own  confession,  might  have  given  me 
an  honorable  birthright,  like  any  one  else's,  and 
who  cruelly  refused  to." 

The  old  man  eyed  !'.er  with  a  searching  glance. 

"Then  she  hasn't  brought  you  up  in  her 
own  wild  ideas  .''  "  he  said.  "  She  has  n't  dinged 
them  into  you  !  " 

"She  has  tried  to,"  Dolly  answered.  "  lUit  I 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  I  hate  her 
ideas,  and  her  friends,  and  her  faction." 

Sir  Anthony  drew  her  forward  and  gave  her  a 
sudden  kiss.      Her  spirit  pleased  him. 

"That's  well,  my  child,"  he  answered. 
"That's  well  —  for  a  beginning." 

Then  Dolly,  emboldened  by  his  kindness, —  for 
in  a  moment,  somehow,  she  had  taken  her  grand- 
father's heart  by  assault, —  began  to  tell  him  how 
it  had  all  come  about;  how  she  had  received  an 
offer  from  a  most  excellent  young  man  at  Combe 
Mary  in  Dorsetshire,  — very  well  connected,  the 
squire  of  his  parish;  how  she  had  accepted  him 
with  joy;  how  she  loved  him  dearly;  how  this 


"K?s«a8igii*ie«im*4w«-;i/>i«<iN^^ 


THE    WOMAN    WHO    IMP. 


215 


shadow  intervened;  how  thereupon,  for  the  first 
time,  she  had  asked   for  and   learned  the  horrid 
truth  about  her  parentage;  how  she  was  stunned 
and  appalled  by  it;  how  she  could   never  again 
live   under  one  roof  with   such  a  woman ;    and 
how  she  came  to  him  for  advice,  for  encourage- 
ment, for  assistance.      She  flung  herself  on  his 
mercy.      Every  word  she   spoke    impressed   Sir 
Anthony.     This  was  no   mere  acting;   the  girl 
really  meant  it.     Brought  up  in  those  hateful  sur- 
roundings, innate  purity  of  mind  had  preserved 
her  innocent  heart  from  the  contagion  of  example. 
She  spoke  like  a  sensible,  modest,  healthy  English 
maiden.      She  was   indeed  a  granddaughter  any 
man  might  be    proud  of.      'T  was   clear   as   the 
sun  in  the   London  sky  to  Sir  Anthony  that  she 
recoiled  with  horror  from,  her  mother's  position. 
He     sympathized    with     her    and    pitied      her. 
Dolores,    all    blushes,    lifted     her    eyelids     and 
looked  at  him.-    Her  grandfather  drew  her  tow- 
ards him  with  a  smile  of  real  tenderness,  and, 
unbending  as  none  had  seen  him  unbend  before 
since  Alan's  death,  told  her  all  the  sad  history 
as   he    himself  envisaged    it.      Dolores    listened 
and  shuddered.      The  old  man  was  vanquished. 
He  would  have  taken  her  once  to   himself,    he 
said,    if   Herminia  had  permitted   it;    he  would 
take  her  to  himself  now,  if  Dolores  would  come 
to  him. 


m 


'it 


2l6 


THE   WOMAN    WHO   DID. 


"J  ■. 

1^ 


'is 


As  for  Dolly,  she  lay  sobbinj;  and  crying  in 
Sir  Anthony's  arms,  as  though  she  had  always 
known  him.  After  all,  he  was  her  grandfather. 
Nearer  to  her  in  heart  and  soul  than  her  mother. 
And  the  butler  could  hardly  conceal  his  surprise 
and  amazement  when  tln-ee  minutes  later  Sir 
Anthony  rang  the  bell,  and  being  discovered 
alone  with  a  strange  young  lady  in  tears,  made 
the  unprecedented  announcement  that  he  would 
sec  no  patients  at  all  that  morning,  and  was  at 
home  to  nobody. 

]5ut  before  Dolly  left  her  new-found  relation's 
house,  it  was  all  arranged  between  them.  She 
was  to  come  there  at  once  as  his  adopted  daugh- 
ter; was  to  take  and  use  the  name  of  Merrick; 
was  to  see  nothing  more  of  that  wicked  woman, 
her  mother;  and  was  to  be  mar.ied  in  due  time 
from  Sir  Anthony's  house,  and  under  Sir 
Anthony's  auspices,   to  Walter  Brydges, 

She  wrote  to  Walter  then  and  there,  from 
her  grandfather's  consulting-room.  Numb  with 
shame  as  she  was,  she  nerved  her  hand  to  write 
to  him.  In  what  most  delicate  language  she 
could  find,  she  let  him  plainly  know  who  Sir 
Anthony  was,  and  all  else  that  had  happened. 
But  she  added  at  the  end  one  significant  clause: 
"While  my  mother  lives,  dear  Walter,  I  feel  I 
can  never  marry  you." 


■/MttHW''  ^  ""■■■"  vwij^^-*  ^^n ,  t'w  vwyxi 


i*Hm'*A«mi^-  M- 


Tin:   WOMAN    WHO    DID. 


217 


XXIII. 


When  she  returned  from  Sir  Anthony's  to  lier 
mother's  h)d«;ini;s,  she  fouiul  llerminia,  very 
pale,  in  the  sitting-room,  waitin--  for  her.  Iler 
eyes  were  fixed  on  a  cherished  autotyiie  of  u 
rinturicchio  at  Teru-ia,  —  Alan's  favorite  pict- 
ure. Out  of  her  penury  she  had  houL;-ht  it.  It 
represented  th'^.  Madonna  bending  in  worsliip 
over  her  divine  chiUi,  and  bore  the  inscription: 
"Ouem  genuit  adoravit."  llerminia  loved  that 
f'-roup.  To  her  it  was  no  mere  emblem  ol  a 
dying  creed,  but  a  tyjie  of  the  eternal  religion 
of  maternity.  The  Mother  adoring  the  Child! 
'Twos  herself  and   Dolly. 

"Well.?"  Herminia  said  interrogatively,  as 
her  daughter  entered,  for  she  half  feared  the 
worst. 

"Well,"  Dolores  answered  in  a  defiant  tone, 
blurting  it  out  in  sudden  jerks,  the  rebellion  of 
a  lifetime  finding  vent  at  last.  "  I  've  been  to 
my  grandfather,  my  father's  father;  and  I  've 
told  him  everything;  and  it  's  all  arranged:  and 
I  'm  to  take  his  name;  and  I  'm  to  go  and  live 
with  him." 


2l8 


THE   WOMAN   WHO    ])iD. 


"Dolly!"  the  mother  cried,  and  fell  forward 
on  the  table  with  her  face  in  her  hands. 
"My  child,  my  child,  are  you  [;<'''^tC  to  leave 
me?" 

"  It  's  quite  time,"  Dolly  answered,  in  a  sullen, 
stolid  voice.  "I  can't  stop  here,  of  course,  now 
I  'm  almost  grown  up  and  engaged  to  be  married, 
associating  any  longer  with  such  a  woman  as 
you  have  been.  No  right-minded  girl  who 
respected  herself  could  do  it." 

Ilerminia  rose  and  faced  her.  Her  white  lips 
grew  livid.  She  had  counted  on  every  element 
of  her  martyrdom, — save  one;  and  this,  the 
blackest  and  fiercest  of  all,  had  never  even  oc- 
curred to  her.  "Dolly,"  she  cried,  "oh,  my 
daughter,  you  don't  know  what  you  do  !  You 
don't  know  how  I've  loved  you!  I've  given 
up  my  life  for  you.  I  thought  when  you  came 
to  woman's  estate,  and  learned  what  was  right 
and  what  wrong,  you  would  indeed  rise  up  and 
call  me  blessed.  And  now,  —  oh,  Dolly,  this 
last  blow  is  too  terrible.  It  will  kill  me,  my 
darling.      I  can't  go  on  out-living  it." 

"  You  will,"  Dolly  answered.  "  You  're  strong 
enough  and  wiry  enough  to  outlive  anything. 
.  .  .  But  I  wrote  to  Walter  from  Sir  Anthony's 
this  morning,  and  told  him  I  would  wait  for 
him  if  I  waited  forever.  For,  of  course,  while 
j/ou  live,  I  couldn't  think  of  marrying  him.     I 


».«fc»-»3»:A.i.'/'W-*/«»mi«iu-*^-««i?>**i«-'w.w«i' 


Tin:   WOMAN    WHO    PIP. 


219 


could  n't  think  of  burdening;  an  honest  man  with 
sucli  a  mother-in-law  as  you  arc!  " 

Hcrminia  could  only  utter  the  one  word, 
"Dolly!"  It  was  a  heart-bnjken  cry,  the  last 
despairing  cry  of  a  wounded  and  stricken 
creature. 


tl 


220 


THE    WUMA.N    WllU    DID. 


XXIV. 

That  night,  Ilcrminia  IJarton  went  up  sadly 
to  her  own  bed  room.  It  was  the  very  last 
night  that  Dolores  was  to  sleep  under  the  same 
roof  with  her  mother.  On  the  morrow,  she 
meant  to  remove  to  Sir  Anthony  Merrick's. 

As  soon  as  Herminia  had  closed  the  door, 
she  sat  down  to  her  writing-table  and  began 
to  write.  Her  pen  moved  of  itself.  And  this 
was  her  letter :  — 


"My  Darmxg  DAUGH'rER,  —  By  the  time  yon  read 
these  words,  I  shall  be  no  longer  in  the  way,  to  inter- 
fere with  your  perfect  freedom  of  action.  I  had  but 
one  task  left  in  life  —  to  make  you  hai)iiy.  Now  I  find 
I  only  stand  in  the  way  of  that  object,  no  reason  re- 
mains why  I  should  endure  any  longer  the  misfortune 
of  living. 

"  My  child,  my  child,  you  must  see,  when  you  come 
to  think  it  over  at  leisure,  that  all  I  ever  did  was  done, 
up  to  my  lights,  to  serve  and  bless  you.  I  thought,  by 
giving  you  the  father  and  the  birth  I  did,  I  was  giving 
you  the  best  any  mother  on  earth  had  ever  yet  given 
her  dearest  daughter.  I  believe  it  still ;  but  I  see  I 
should  never  succeed  in  making  you  feel  it.     Accept 


iir^'.~W>»^v:vt,.«fa 


c~!:'^*a-iTfaer 


ariiiaiiia 


TIIK   WOMAN   WHO   niD, 


221 


this  reparation.  For  all  tlie  wrong  I  may  iiavc  doiu', 
all  the  mistakes  I  may  iiave  made,  I  sincerely  and  ear- 
nestly im[)lore  your  forgiveness.  I  could  not  have  had 
it  while  I  lived;  I  beseech  and  pray  you  to  grant  me 
dead  what  you  would  never  have  been  able  to  grant  me 
living. 

"  My  darling,  I  thought  you  would  grow  up  to  feel  as 
I  did ;  I  ihought  you  would  thank  me  for  leading  you 
to  see  such  things  as  the  blind  world  is  incapable  of 
seeing.  There  I  made  a  mistake  ;  and  sorely  am  I 
punished  for  it.  Don't  visit  it  upon  my  head  in  your 
recollections  when  I  can  no  longer  defend  myself. 

"  I  set  out  in  life  with  the  earnest  determination  to 
be  a  martyr  to  the  cause  of  truth  and  righteousness,  as 
I  myself  understood  them.  But  I  didn't  foresee  this 
last  pang  of  martyrdom.  No  soul  can  tell  bcf  )r','hand 
to  what  particular  cross  the  blind  chances  of  the  uni- 
verse will  finally  nail  it.  But  I  am  ready  to  be  offered, 
and  the  time  of  my  departure  is  close  at  hand.  I  liave 
fought  a  good  fight ;  I  have  finished  my  course  ;  I  have 
kept  the  faith  I  started  in  life  with.  Nothing  now  re- 
mains for  me  but  the  crown  of  martyrdom.  My  dar- 
ling, it  is  indeed  a  very  bitter  cup  to  me  that  you  should 
wish  me  dead  ;  but  't  is  a  small  thing  to  die,  above  all 
for  the  sake  of  those  we  love.  I  die  for  you  gladly, 
knowing  that  by  doing  so  I  can  easily  relieve  my  ov.-n 
dear  litde  girl  of  one  trouble  in  life,  and  make  her 
course  lie  henceforth  through  smoother  waters.  Be 
happy !  be  happy !  Good-by,  my  Dolly  !  Your 
mother's  love  go  forever  through  life  with  you  ! 


'i'm^mtfi^^^.ip  ;'j  .-mh  ■' 


'J')  "> 


'II  li:    WOMAN    WHO    Din. 


-.MM 


"  nuni  this  Muirnl   notr  tin.'  inoinciU  yon  liavc  read 

it.      I    inclose  a  inon'  toiiiial  nui'.  L;i\inL;  reasons  for  my 

act  on  other   s^iouniis,  to  be   pin    in.  it    need   be.  a.t  the 

coroner's    inqnest.       (lood  ni^ht.    my    heart's    darling. 

N'our  truly  devoted  and  alVectionalc 

Moniiu. 

"Oh,  Dollv,  my  lX)lly,  you  never  will  knov  with 
what   love   1    lo\ed   you." 

When  she  had  finished  that  note,  and  folded 
it  reverently  with  kisses  and  tears,  she  wrote 
the  seeond  one  in  a  turn  hand  for  the  fi)rntal 
cvidenee.  Then  she  put  on  a  fresh  white  dress, 
rts  pure  as  her  own  soul,  like  ti\e  owe  she  had 
\V(>rn  on  the  nii;ht  ot  her  self-made  briilal  with 
Alan  iMerriek.  In  her  bost)ni  she  fastened  two 
innoeent  while  roses  Ironi  Waller  l>ivdi;es's 
bouquet,  arran^ini;  them  with  stuilious  eare  \'ery 
daititily  befoie  her  miia-or.  She  was  always  a 
woman,  "I'lU'liaps,"  she  thoui;ht  to  herselt, 
"for  her  !t)\'er's  sake,  my  Dolly  will  kiss  them. 
Wh.en  she  thuls  them  hin^on  her  dead  mother's 
breast,  my  Dolly  m;y  kiss  them."  Then  she 
cried  a  few  minutes  very  softly  to  herself;  for 
no  one  can  die  without  s^une  little  rei;rei,  some 
consciousness  of  the  unitiue  solemnity  of  the 
occasion. 

At  last  she  rose  and  moved  over  to  her  desk. 
Out  of  it  she  took  a  small  glass-stoppered  phial, 


li  iHi>  Miiiiii>»aiiia 


i:*m^wmm&i'iai»i 


TIIK    WfniAX    WHO    \n\\ 


223 


that  a  sciontitic  fticiul  luul  L;ivon  her  loni;-  a,i;o 
for  use  in  case  of  cxlri-nio  diui \;;i'iuy.  It  con.- 
taincil  prussic  acitl.  Slic  luuiicil  llic  conU'iits 
into  a  L;Iass  and  thank  it  olf.  Tlu'n  slu-  lay 
upon  luT  bcil  and  waitod  tm-  iho  oid\-  Iricnd  sho 
had  lot'l  in  thowoild,  witii  hanils  loUKd  on  Ikt 
breast,  like  some  saint  ot  tho  middle  aL;es. 

Not  tor  nothini;"  does  l)lind  tatc  \onchs;i!o  snrh 
niaitvrs  to  hnnianity.  h'rom  their  _>;raves  shall 
sprini;  L;lorions  the  ehureli  ot  the  tntnre. 

When  Didores  eanie  in  ne\l  nuunin-  to  say 
a-ood  hv.  she  I'ound  her  mother's  hiuly  eoKi  and 
St  ill  npon  the  bed,  in  a  pnrc-  white  dress,  with 
two  ernsh.ed  white  roses  jnst  peeping;  troin  her 
h(nliee. 

Ilerininia  barton's  stainless  soul  had  ceased 
to  exist   lorever. 


Tin;  i:ni). 


wmm 


■mmmm^m^smmmsmmimsmii^ 


THE  GREAT  GOD  PAN  AND  THE 
INMOST   LIGHT. 

BY    ARTHUR     MACHEN. 

KEYNOTES  SERIES. 

i6mo.     Cloth.     Price,  $i.oo. 


A  couple  of  tales  by  Arthur  Maclien,  presumably  an  Englisliman,  publisfied 
^stlietically  in  this  country  by  Roberts  I'rotliers.  'I'hey  are  horror  stories,  the 
horror  being  of  the  vague  psychologic  kind  and  dependent,  in  each  case,  upon  a  man 
of  science  who  tries  to  effect  a  change  in  individual  personality  by  an  o|)i,ration  upon 
the  brain  cells.  The  implied  lesson  is  i.;at  it  is  dangerous  and  unwise  to  seek  to 
probe  the  mystery  separating  mind  and  matter.  These  sketches  are  extremely  strong, 
and  we  guarantee  the  "shivers"  to  any  one  wlio  reads  thetn.  —  Hartford  Coiirani. 

For  two  stories  o[  tiu;  most  marvellous  and  improbable  character,  yet  told  with 
wonderful  realism  and  naturalness,  the  palm  for  this  time  will  have  to  be  awarded  to 
Arthur  Maclien,  for  "'i'he  Great  Clod  Pan  and  the  Inmost  I.iglit,"  two  stories  just 
publislied  in  one  book.  They  are  fitting  cump.inions  to  the  famous  stories  by  Kdgar 
Allan  Poe  both  in  matter  and  style.  "The  Great  God  I'an  "  is  founded  upon  an 
experiment  made  upon  a  girl  by  whicli  siie  was  enabled  for  a  moment  to  see  the  god 
Pan,  but  with  most  disastrous  results,  the  most  wonderful  of  which  is  revealed  ai  the 
end  opthe  story,  and  which  solution  the  reader  will  eagerly  seek  to  reach.  From  the 
first  mystery  or  tragedy  follow  in  rapid  succession.  "I'he  Inmost  Light"  Is  eiiiially 
as  remarkable  for  its  imaginative  power  and  perfect  air  of  probability.  Anything  \\\ 
the  legitimate  line  of  psychology  utterly  pales  before  these  stories  of  such  plausibility. 
Boston  Ifo)ite  JonrnaL 

Precisely  who  the  great  god  Pan  of  Mr.  Machen's  first  tale  is,  we  did  not  ([uite 
discover  when  we  read  it,  or,  discovering,  we  have  forgotten;  but  our  impression  is 
tliat  under  the  idea  of  that  primitive  great  deity  he  imiiersonated,  or  meant  to  im- 
personate, the  evil  influences  that  attach  to  woman,  the  fatality  of  feminine  beauty, 
which,  like  tlu  countenance  of  tiie  great  god  Pan,  is  deadly  to  all  who  behold  it. 
His  heroine  is  a  beautiful  woman,  who  ruins  the  souls  and  bodies  of  those  over  whom 
she  casts  her  spells,  being  as  good  as  a  Suicide  Club,  if  we  may  say  so,  to  those  who 
love  her;  and  to  whom  she  is  Death.  .Something  like  this,  if  not  this  exactly,  is,  we 
take  it,  the  intorpret,\tion  of  Mr.  Maclu-n's  uncanny  parable,  which  is  too  (jbscure 
to  Justify  itself  as  an  imaginative  cre.ition  and  too  morbid  to  be  the  production  of  a 
iiealthy  mind.  The  kind  of  writing  wliich  it  illustrates  is  a  bad  one  and  this  is  one 
of  the  worst  of  the  kind.  It  is  not  terrible,  but  horrible.  -  A'.  //.  .S".  m  tuail  and 
Express. 


Sol  J  by  all  Booksellers.     Mailed  by  Publishers. 

Lrri'Li:,  brown,  and    CUMPANV,   I5...sn)N. 


",(i)iji**««i«*wi*%»*»'i«»*tV*»>« 


DISCORDS. 

31  Uolumc  of  Storied. 
By  GEORGE  IXIERTON,  author  of  "  Keynotes/ 

AMERICAN    COPYRIGHT    EDITION. 
i6mo.     Cloth.     PnVt\  $i.oo. 


George  Es'^''''^"'s  "cw  volume  entitled  "  Discords,"  a  collection  of  short  stones, 
Is  more  talked  about,  just  now,  than  any  otlier  fiction  <>f  llie  day.  'I'lie  collection  is 
really  stories  for  story-writers.  They  are  precisely  the  (lu.dity  wiiieh  literary  tolk  will 
wrangle  over.  Harold  Frederic  cables  from  I,(jndon  to  the  "  New  Vork  Times  "  that 
the  book  is  making  a  profound  impression  there  It  is  publisiied  on  both  sides,  the 
Roberts  House  bringing  it  out  in  Hoston.  George  Egerton,  like  George  fc^liot  and 
George  Sand,  is  a  woman's  nom  dc  (ihime.  Tiie  extraordin  iry  frankness  with  which 
life  !n  general  is  discussed  in  these  stories  not  unnaturally  arrests  attention  — 
Lilian  li'hitinff. 

The  Knglish  woman,  known  as  yet  only  by  the  name  of  George  P^gcrton,  who 
made  something  of  a  stir  in  the  world  by  a  voiuinc  of  strong  stories  called  "  Keynotes," 
has  brought  out  a  new  book  under  the  rather  uncomfortable  title  of  "  Discords." 
These  stories  show  us  pessimism  run  wild  ;  the  gloomy  things  that  can  happen  to  a 
human  being  are  so  dwelt  upon  as  to  leave  the  impression  th.it  in  the  author's  own 
world  there  is  no  light.  The  relations  of  the  se.xes  are  treated  of  in  bitter  irony,  which 
develops  into  actual  horror  as  the  pages  pass.  lUit  in  all  this  fliere  is  a  rugged 
grandeur  of  style,  a  keen  analysi,;  of  motive,  and  a  deepness  of  pathos  that  stamp 
George  Kgerton  as  one  of  the  greatest  women  writers  of  the  day.  "Discords"  has 
been  called  a  volume  of  stones  ;  it  is  a  misnomer,  for  the  book  contains  merely  varying 
episo  'es  in  lives  of  men  and  wonen,  with  no  plot,  no  beg:,,iiing  nor  ending.  —  Boston 
Traveller. 

This  is  a  new  volume  of  psychological  stories  from  the  pen  and  brains  oi  Teoree 
Egerton,  the  author  of  "  Keynotes  "  Evidently  the  titles  of  the  author's  books  are 
.selected  according  to  musical  principles.  Tlie  first  st<.ry  in  the  book  is  "  A  Psycho, 
logical  Moment  at  'I'hree  Periods."  It  is  all  strength  rather  than  sentiment.  The 
Story  of  the  child,  of  the  girl,  and  of  the  woman  is  told,  and  told  by  one  to  whom  the 
mysteries  of  the  life  of  each  are  fami'iarly  known.  In  their  verv  truth,  as  the  writer 
has  so  subtly  analyzed  her  triple  char.aclers,  they  sadden  one  to  think  that  such  things 
must  be  ;  yet  as  they  are  real,  they  are  bound  to  be  disclosed  by  somebody  and  in  due 
time.  The  author  betrays  reniprkable  penetrative  skill  and  perception,  and  dissects 
the  human  heart  with  a  power  from  whose  demonstration  the  sensitive  nature  ma> 
instinctively  shrink  even  while  fascinated  with  the  narration  and  hypnotized  by  tlic 
treatment  exhibited.  —  Courier 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed  I'v  Publishers, 

LIT'lLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY,  Boston. 


MMimsmm-!&  ■^■>p!mmm^..4i»-: 


lotes. 


short  stcries, 

e  collect i( 111  is 
L-rary  folk  will 
'rimes  "  that 
oth  sidus,  ilie 
rge  Eliot  and 
ss  with  wliicli 
attention-  — 

F*'gcrtoti,  who 
"  Keynotes," 
"  Discords. " 
ha]ipL-n  to  a 
author's  own 
r  irony,  which 
;  is  a  rugged 
)s  that  stamp 
•  iscords"  has 
lerely  varying 
inj;.  —  Boston 

ins  oi  Oforce 
r's  hooks  are 

"A  Psycho, 
fiment.  The 
to  wliom  the 
as  the  writer 
It  snch  things 
\y  and  in  due 

and  <h'<sert9 
;  nature  niaj 
Dtized  by  tlie 


Boston. 


A  CHILD  OP  TIIH  AGE. 

BY   FRANCIS    ADAMS 

(KEYNOTES  SERIES.) 

With   titlcpagc     hy    Ali-.key    Beardslkv.       i6mo.      Cloth. 
Price,  $i.oo. 

Tills  story  hy  Francis  Adams  was  originally  published  under  the  title  of 
"Leicester,  an  Aulolno^raphy,"  in  iS'-^.},  when  the  author  uas  only  twenty-two  years 
of  age.  'rii.it  Would  make  him  ihiity-lwd  \ears  okl  now,  it'  he  were  still  livin;.  He 
was  but  eighteen  years  old  when  it  wa^  tirst  dratted  by  him.  Sometime  alter  publica- 
tion, he  revised  the  work,  and  in  its  present  form  it  is  now  published  again,  practi. 
cally  a  posthumous  production  We  can  with  truthfulness  cliaracteri/.e  it  as  a  tale  ot 
fre->h  origin. ility,  deep  spiritual  meaning,  and  exceptional  power.  It  t.ilrlv  buds, 
blossoms,  .ind  fiuits  with  suggestions  tli.it  >.eari  h  the  Iium.ui  spirit  tliiouuh.  No 
sitnil.ir  production  has  come  from  the  hand  of  auv  author  in  our  time.  i'li.it  I  rancis 
Ad.inu.  wnu'.d  have  carved  out  a  remaik.ible  career  for  hlni'-i'lf  h,id  he  continued  to 
live,  this  little  v..lume,  all  compact  with  signilicmt  suggestion,  attests  on  many  .i 
p.age.  It  exalts,  inspires,  comforts,  and  strengthens  .ill  tir^otlier  It  instructs  by 
suggestion,  spiritualizes  the  thuught  by  its  elevating  and  puvitying  narrative,  and 
feeds  the  hungering  spirit  with  food  it  is  only  too  ready  to  accept  and  assinulate. 
Those  who  read  its  pages  with  an  eag>M  curiosity  the  first  time  will  be  pretty  sure 
to  return  to  them  for  a  second  slower  nnd  more  meditative  perusal  The  bonk  is 
assuredlv  the  promis..  aiul  potency  of  gieat  things  unattained  in  the  too  brief  life- 
time of  it,  uifted  author.  We  heartily  cnunend  it  as  a  book  not  only  of  remarkable 
power,  but  as  the  product  of  a  human  spirit  whose  merelv  intellectual  gifts  w.,Me  but 
a  fractional  part  of  his  inclusive  spiritual  endowments.  -^   Bosfon  Coiiyu-r. 

l!ut  it  is  a  remarkable  work  as  a  pathologicd  study  ahnost  unsurpas.^ed.  It 
produces  the  impression  of  a  phot-.uraph  from  life,  so  vividly  reaistic  is  the  treatment. 
To  this  result  the  author's  stvle,  witli  its  lidelity  of  micro.scnpic  del.ul,  .loubtless 
contributes.  —  E7','nliic   'I'rarfih'f 

Thissforvbv  Francis  Adams  is  one  to  read  sIo^^ly.  and  then  to  reul  a  second 
time.  It  is  powerfullv  written,  full  of  str.mg  suggestion,  unlike,  in  fact,  anything  we 
have  recentlv  read.  What  he  would  have  done  in  the  w.,y  of  literary  creation,  had  he 
lived,  is,  of  course,  only  a  niafer  .,f  conjecture  What  he  did  we  have  helore  us  ip 
tliis  remarkable  book.  —  Boston  Advr'rtist'y. 

So/c/  by  all  Booksellers.     Mailed  hy  tJw  Publishers, 

MTTLF..  r.ROWN,  .AND    COMP.WV,  Boston. 


,»^T«»*^»»»n«B,,»,,«i^^v'^,!jjj^,,i;,,j^j^^ 


^be  Ikc^notes  Series* 

J6mo.     Cloth.     Price,  $1.00. 

r.     KEYNOTES.     I'.y  Ci-okgk  Ei.iuton. 

II.     THE  DANCING  FAUN.     I'.y   I  i  okknck  Fakk. 

IN.     POOR   FOLK.     I'.y    I  kdok   I)u-h;ii:v^kv.     'rian--l,Ue(l  frDin  tlie 
KiKM.in  bv  Lk.na    Mii.ma.n.     With  an  liitrdducliiiii  by  CiKoKdi.; 

IV.    A  CHILD  OF  THE  AGE.     Vv  li;  w.  i-,  .Ai.ams. 

V.    THE   GREAT  GOD    PAN    AND   THE    INMOST    LIGHT.       liy 

Akthik   .MAcniiN, 

VI.  DISCORDS.     I'.y  (■.U(jkgk  Kcekton. 

Vil.  Pi'^INCE  ZALESKI.     \W  M.  !'■  Sinia.. 

VIII.  THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID.     I'.v  (m.ant  Ai.i.kn. 

I.\.  WOMEN'S  TRA.GEDIES.     I'.v  II    D.   I..nvKv. 

X.  GREY  ROSES  AND  OTHER  STORIES,     i'.y  Himv  Hahianu 

XI.  AT  THE  FIRST  CORNER  AND  OTHER  STORIES.    P.y  ,11.   li 

.M  AKKli  .IT    W  ATm).\  . 

XII  MONOCHROMES.     l'.y  Ei.'.a  D'Arcy. 

XIII.  AT  THE  RELTON  ARMS.     I'v  Kviu.vn  Sharp. 

XIV.  THE  GIRL  FROM  THE  FARM.     i!y  (Jiktiude  Dix. 

XV.  THE  MIRROR  OF  MUSIC.     IW  Stani.kv  V.   Makuwer. 

XVI.  YELLOW  AND  WHITE.     Ily  W.  Caklk-.n  I)  a  we. 

XVII.  THE  MOUNTAIN  LOVERS.     I!y   Fi.  .na  Ma(  i.i  ..d. 

XVI II.  THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID  NOT.     I'.y  Vu  icKtA  Crossr. 

XIX.  THE  THREE  IMPOSTORS.     Hy  Aktmir  Maciie.n. 

XX.  ."OBODY'S  FAULT.     I'.y  Ni  tta  Svkett. 

XXI.  PLATONIC  AFFECTIONS.     I'.y  J.ii.v  S.mith. 

XXII  IN  HOMESPUN.     I'.y  K.   Nesiut. 

XXIII.  NETS  FOR  THE  WIND.     I!v  Una  A     Tavi.,!!. 

XXIV.  WHERE  THE  ATLANTIC  MEETS  THE  LAND.     I!y  Caidwem, 

Lll'SETT. 

XXV.     DAY-BOOKS.     Chnmicles   of   Coed    and    VMl     P.v  Maiiei.   E. 

W..T|nN. 

XXVI.  IN  SCARLET  AND  GREY.  Si,.rius  of  Snldicrs  .md  Otlins.  Hv 
iM.oKE.N.E  llE.NMKi  K  ;  witli  THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  REAL, 
by  Tuo.ma.s  Haruv  and  I'iokenh-:  IIenmker  (in  collahoialion). 

XXVII.     MARIS  STELLA.     I'.y  Makie  Ci-otmiide  Hai.ioir 

XXVIII.     UGLY  IDOL.     I'.v  (laid  Nichoishn. 

XXIX.  SHAPES  IN  THE  FIRE.  A  Mid-Winter  Entertainmunt.  Witl, 
an  IntL'ilude.      Ily  .M.  1'.  Siiiel. 

Sc>/(/  h'  all  Booksellers.     Maihil^  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price, 
by  the  Pul>lis/iers, 

TJ'ITLK,  BROWN,  AND    C^OIMPANY,  r.osioN. 

John  Line,  The.  Rodley  Hpad.  Vigo  iSti'Prt.  London.  W. 


wm 


om   tlie 


liy 


i 


THE    DANCING   FAUN. 

By  FLORENCE   FARR. 

IVith  Title-page  and  Cover  'Desiifii  by  Aubrey  Beardslej'. 
16mo.    Cloth.    Price,  $1.00. 


We  welcome  the  light  and  merry  pen  of  Miss  Farr  as  cuie  of  the  deftest  that 
has  been  wielded  in  the  style  of  to-day.  She  has  written  liic  clcTerest  and  the 
most  cynical  sensation  story  nf  the  season,  — Liverf'ool  Daily  /'ost. 

Slight  as  It    s,  the  story  is,  in  its  way,  stron:^.  — Litrrary  H\irld. 

F'liH  of  brigiit  paradox,  and  i)aradox  which  is  no  mere  to|)sy-tiirvv  play  upon 
words,  but  the  product  of  serious  tiiinking  upon  life.  One  ot  the  cleverest  of 
recent  novels.  — Star. 

It  is  tuU  of  eiiigrammr.tic  efTects,  and  it  lias  a  certain  tiiread  of  patlios  calcu- 
lated to  win  our  spnipathy.  —  Queen. 

Tiie  story  is  subtle  and  psychological  after  the  fasliion  of  mod' •  i  ji^ychology  ; 
it  is  undeniably  clever  and  smartly  written.  —  GeiitU"voiiian. 

No  one  can  deny  its  freshness  and  wit.  huKed  theie  aie  things  in  it  here  .nid 
tliere  which  John  Oliver  Hobbes  herself  might  have  >i;.;ned  witiiout  loss  of  repu- 
tation   —  //  'OIIUDI. 

There  is  a  lurid  power  in  the  very  unreality  of  tlie  story.  One  does  not  quite 
understand  how  Lady  Geraldine  worked  lier>elf  up  to  shoi'ting  her  lover;  but 
wiien  siie  has  done  it,  the  description  of  what  jiasses  through  her  mind  is 
magnificent.  —  AthtHceiDit. 

Written  by  an  obviously  clever  wmnaii  —  Black  and  IVhite. 

Miss  I'arr  has  talent.  '''I'he  Dancing  I'aun  "  contains  writing  th.it  is  distinc- 
tively good.  Doubtless  it  is  only  a  prelude  to  something  much  stronger. — 
Aeadeiny. 

As  a  work  of  art,  the  book  has  the  tnerit  of  brevity  and  smart  writing,  while 
tile  di'iioneinent  is  skilfully  prejiared,  and  comes  as  a  suri)ri^e  If  the  book  had 
been  intended  as  a  satire  on  tlie  "  new  woniin  "  sort  of  literatuie,  it  would  have 
been  most  brilliant;  but  assuming  it  to  be  written  in  earnest,  we  can  heartily 
praise  the  form  of  its  construction  without  agreeing  with  the  sentiments  expressed. 
St.  yavii's's  Gazette. 

Shows  co-isiderable  power  and  aptitude.  —  .Sattnday  Review. 

Miss  Farr  is  a  clever  writer  whose  appreniiceshii)  at  jilaywriting  can  easily  be 
detected  in  the  epigrammatic  conversations  with  wliicli  this  book  is  filled,  and 
whose  ciiaracters  expound  a  philosophy  of  life  which  strongly  recills  ().-,car 
Wilde's  later  interpretriiions.  .  .  .  'I'lie  theme  f)f  the  tale  is  heredity  develoiied 
in  a  most  unpleasant  manner.  The  leading  itlea  that  daughters  irdi>  ril  the  father's 
qualities,  good  or  evil,  while  sons  resemble  their  motlier,  is  well  sustained  — 
Home  Journal. 


Sold  everjnvhert.     Postpaid  by  publishers. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AxND   COMPANY, 

Boston. 


:fi«,,*-»;.8«SifW»f»-.y*i-it-!i*!5^<- 


If 


A    tSlKAXCili   CAKLCliK. 


LIFE    AND    ADVENTURES    OF 
JOHN   GLADWYN   JEBB. 

BY    HIS    WIDOW. 

With  an    Introduction  hy  H.  Ridki;   HA(iC,AKD,  and  a  por. 
trait  of  Mr.  Jt'bl).     i  ^nio,  cloth.     Trice,  ?i. 25. 


A  remarkable  minanco  of  niodtrn  life.  — Daily  Chronicle 

Excitinj;  td  a  deu^ree.  —  H.'nik  tin  J  White. 

Full  f)f  briatliK-M^  intiie^t. —  Fiinc'i. 

Reads  like  I'lctidii.  —  Daily  Ciraf-liic. 

Pages  which  will  hold  their  readers  fa^.t  to  the  very  end.  —  Graphic. 

A  better  told  and  more  marvellous  narrative  of  a  real  life  w.i^  never  put 
Uito  the  covers  of  a  sma'l  octavo  volume.  —  To-Day. 

As  fascinating  .is  any  rom.mce.  ,  .  .  The  book  is  of  the  most  entranc- 
ing interest.  —  .V/.  Janice's  IhiJ^rt. 

Those  who  1o\l'  stories  of  adventure  will  find  a  volume  to  their  taste  in 
tlie  "  Life  and  .Ailventures  of  John  (_iladwyn  Jebb,"  just  jMiblished,  and  to 
which  an  introduction  is  furnished  by   Rider  Ihiggard.      The  Litter  says 


th.it 


i.uxlv,  if  ever,  in  tiiis  nineteenth  centurv,  has  a  man  livctl  so  str 


in 


ge 


and  N.uied  an  e\iste'nce  as  did  Mr.   [ebb.      l''rom  the  time  that  In;  came  t( 


manhood  lie  was  a  wanderer 
daily  life  is  cei'taiidv  a  mvsterv, 


d  I 


uui  now 


he  sur\ive'd  the  nuiny  [lerils  of  his 
The  stiange  and  remarkable  adven- 


tures of  wliich  we  have  an  account  in  this  volume  weie  in  Ciuatemala,  Ura/.il, 
in  our  own  tar  West  \sith  the  Indi.uis  nn  the  plains,  in  mining  cami)s  in 
Colorado  and  (ialifornia,  in  Te.xas,  in  Cuba  and  Me.xico,  where  occurred 
the  search  for  Montezuma's,  or  rather  (iuatenioc's  treasure,  to  which  Mr. 
Haggard  believes  that  Mr.  Jebb  held  the  key,  but  whicli  through  his  death 
is  now  t'orever  lost.  The  story  is  one  of  thrilling  interest  from  beginning 
to  end,  the  story  of  a  born  adventurer,  unseltish,  sanguine,  romantic,  of  a 
man  too  mystical  and  pontic  in  his  nature  for  this  prosaic  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, but  who,  as  a  crusader  or  a  knight  errant, 


won 


Id 


lave  won 


dist 


mguis 


hed 


success.     The  volume  is  a  notable  addition  to  the  literature  of  adventure. 
—  Boston  Advertiser. 


Sold  by  all  Booksellers.     Mailed.,  postpaid.,  by  the  pub- 
Ushers, 

LITTLE,  T]RO\VN,  AND    COMPANY,  Boston. 


I   •  1! 


iiWit-ffi-iii 


^M,  -    ^^:*vk';'s^^^'rJn'ky^-r<M  ■■>>> 


^. 


POOR    FOLK. 


5    OF 

B. 

k1  a  por. 
''5- 


rninshUcd  fn;m  the  Russian  of  Im'.dor  Dostoievsky,  by 
I-KNA  Mil, MAX,  Willi  decora lyvc  litlei)agc  and  a  <:rili- 
cal  introduction  by  Gi;()k(;L:  Ab)(jKE.  American 
Copyright  edition. 

16mo.     Cloth.    $1.00. 


rafhic. 
.  never  put 

■^t  entraiic- 

■ir  taste  in 
led,  and  to 
•liter  says 
50  straiisre 
e  came  to 
rils  of  !ii,s 
ile  advcn- 
la,  lirazil, 
camps  in 
occurred 
hich   Mr. 
liis  death 
beginnint; 
in  tic,  ot  a 
LMith  cen- 
in^uished 
dventure. 


he  ptib- 

OSTON. 


A  capnblc  critic  writes  :  "  ()„e  of  the  most  heautifd.  toiiclnns  stories  I  have 
read,  'I'h.;  character  of  the  o'.d  clerk  is  a  ina-tcrpicce,  a  kind  of  Russian  Charles 
Lamb.  He  remiiuls  me,  too,  of  Anatole  France's  '  SyivLv.tre  Humiard,'  but  it 
IS  a  more  poii;nant,  movni-  li-ure  II, nv  wouderfullv,  too,  the  sad  little  strokes 
of  humor  are  bleiKk-d  into  the  [;ath,.s  in  his  characterization,  and  how  lascinatmj,' 
all  the  naive  self-reveiati(;ns  of  his  poverty  become,  -  all  liis  many  ups  and  downs 
and  hopes  and  fears.  His  unsucce-^stul  vnit  to  the  nioncvlendcr,  his  despair  .it  the 
office.  nne\i,ected!y  endin-  in  a  sudden  burst  of  k'ood  fortune,  the  Una!  despair- 
ing; cry  of  Ins  love  tor  V.irv.ira.  these  hold  one  bre.i'hlcss  One  can  liardly 
read  thein  without  tear.s.  .  .  ,  lint  tliere  is  no  need  to  v  all  that  could  be  said 
about  the  hook.     It  is  enough  to  say  that  it  is  over  poweiml  and  iieautilnl." 

We  ,ire  glad  to  welcome  a  good  translation  of  the  Ru.ssi.ui  Dostoiev.sV y's 
Story  •'  Por.r  folk,"  Knglished  by  Lena  .Mdm.in.  It  i.s  a  tale  of  unrequifed  love 
conducted  m  the  •  „  ni  of  letter.-,  written  between  ,i  poor  clerk  and  his  girl  cousin 
whom  he  devotedly  loves,  ,ind  who  finally  leaves  inm  to  marry  a  m.ni  iiot  idmir- 
able  m  ch.u.icter  who,  the  reader  feels,  will  not  nuike  her  hipov.  The  p.ithos  of 
the  book  centres  in  the  elerk,  ,M,ik,ir's,  unseilish  atfectioii  .md  his  he.irt-break  .': 
being  lett  lonesome  by  his  charming  kinswoman  whose  epistles  have  been  iii',  one 
solace.      In  the  condiictnient  of  the  si 


sian  lite  are  gi 


realistic  sf 


a  sparkling  introduction  t 


heighlenmg  the  effect  of  the  den 


e!clies  of  middle  c 


lass  K 


.0  the  book.  —  Ifiirf/ord  Couraut. 


ouinent.    (Jeorge  Moore  writes 


Dostoievsky  is  a  gre.it  aitist,     *' 1' 


Advertiser. 


n    Folk 


is  a  great   novel  —  Boston 


It  i 


s  a  nios 


after  the  book  is  closed,     'I 


t  beautiful  and  touching  story,  and  will 


inger  in  the  mind  long 


pathos  is   blended  with,   touching  bits  of  humor. 
ves.       Boston   fillies. 


that  are  even  pathetic  in  themsel 

Notwithstanding  that  "Poor    Folk"   is  told    i,   that 


entirely  unreal  style  — by  letter 


:)es  not  Ikig  as  tiie  various  phases   in   t 


It   IS  complete  in  seqnenc 


most  cxaspernting  and 


and  tl 


interest 


developed.     The  theme  is  inti 


'le    sordid   lite    of  ihe   t\ 


lent  is  exceedingly  artistic.     The  t 


nsely  pathetic   and  tnilv  1 


wo  eharacters  are 


luinan,  w 


hil. 


Its  tre.it- 


ranslato 


i^eserved  the  spirit  of  the  original   —  Cambt-id^-e  Tr 


r,  Lena   .Mil man,  seems  to  iiave  welJ 


•bii 


■ne. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY, 

Boston. 


*''t3«mp.*#*«6«W«««!#,i,%'J»- 


KEYNOTES. 

0  IT^olumc  of  &tonc0» 

By  GF.ORdF.  Egkkton.     With  titlepage  by  Auhrev 
Beardsli:v.     iGnio.     Cloth.     Price,  $i.oo. 


^^1; 


i 

1 

i 

' 

i. 

i    • 

1 

Not  since  "  Tlie  Story  of  an  African  Farm"  was  writtuii  lias  any  unman  da- 
livered  herself  of  so  sironj;,  so  forcible  a  hi  ok.  —-  (Jiu-ru. 

Knotty  questions  in  sex  piobleins  are  ikak  witli  in  ili.sc  brief  '-kuielies.  Tiiey 
are  treated  boldly,  fe.iilcssly,  peril. ips  we  may  say  forcefully,  with  a  deep  pliiii);e 
into  the  realities  of  life.  I'he  colors  are  laid  in  masses  on  ihe  canvas,  while 
passions,  temperaments,  and  sudden,  siditle  analyses  take  form  under  the  cjuick, 
sharp  stroke.  Though  they  contain  a  vein  of  co.irseness  and  touch  slightly  upon 
tabooed  subjects,  they  evidence  power  and  thouj^ht.  —  riiblic  Of'inio'i 

Indeed,  we  do  nut  hesitate  to  say  thai  "Kevnotes''  is  the  stronupst  volume 
of  short  stories  that  the  year  lias  pvorlnced.  I'urthcr,  we  would  wa.;er  a  good 
deal,  were  it  necessary,  that  tleor.ue  Kuerton  i>  a  iioni-de-p'unie,  and  of  ,i  woman, 
too.  Why  is  it  that  so  many  women  iiide  beneath  a  man's  name  when  they  enter 
the  field  of  authorsliip?  And  in  this  case  it  seems  doubly  foolish,  tiie  work  is  so 
intensely  strong;.  .  .  . 

The  chief  characters  of  tliese  stories  are  women,  and  women  drawn  as  only  a 
woman  can  draw  woi  d-i)ictiires  df  lier  owii  sex.  The  subtlety  of  aii.ilysis  is 
wonderful,  direct  in  its  effi-ciiveiiess,  unerrint;  in  its  truth,  and  slirrinj;  in  its  reveal- 
ing power.  Truly,  no  one  but  a  woman  could  thus  ilirow  the  light  ot  levelaiion 
upon  her  own  sex.  Man  does  not  llnder^tand  woman  as  does  the  author  of 
"  Kevnotes." 

'I'he  vitality  of  the  stnries,  too,  is  remark. ible.  Life,  very  real  life,  is  pictured  ; 
life  full  f)f  joys  and  sorrows,  happinesses  and  heartbreaks,  courage  and  self-s,ici  ifice  ; 
of  self-abnegation,  of  >in]ggle,  of  victurv-  The  characters  are  intense,  \el  not 
overdrawn  ;  the  experiences  are  dramatic,  in  one  seii-^e  or  another,  and  yet  are 
never  hypei-emntion.il.  And  all  is  told  with  a  [lower  of  cniicentr.ition  that  is 
bimply  astoni--hing.  A  sentence  does  duty  for  a  chapter,  a  iiaragra[)h  fur  a  picture 
of  years  of  experience. 

Indeed,  for  vigor,  originality,  forcefuliiess  of  expression,  and  completeness  of 
character  present. ition,  "  Keynotes"  surpasses  any  recent  volume  of  short  fiction 
that  we  can  recall.  —  7'iiiics,  Hoston. 

It  brings  a  new  (juality  and  a  striking  new  force  into  the  literature  of  the 
hour.  —  The  S/'i\ikrr. 

The  mind  that  cnnceived  "  Keynotes"  is  so  strong  and  original  that  one  will 
look  with  deep  interest  for  the  successors 
appealingly  feminine.  —  Irish  Independent, 


f  this  first  book,  at  once  powerful  and 


Sold  by  all  hooksi'llers.     ^^ailcli^  post-paid,  on  receipt 
cif  price  by  the  Publishers^ 

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Boston. 


iiat. 


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•.■...■,.1. ^T.-»n-»,   » r^y » .-;  -■^..1—^.^ .t-.. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON'S  WORKS. 


.00. 

y  woman  do- 

:iLlie'^.  Tliey 
deep  iilmijje 
iiivas,  while 
cr  the  (|iiick, 
s!igl)tly  upon 
7. 

iKcst  volume 
\a,;;er  a  good 
of  .1  womnii, 
II  they  enter 
le  wiirk  is  so 

wu  as  only  a 
analysis  is 
in  its  reveal- 
it  levelatioii 
e  author  (if 

s  pictured  ; 
lf-s,icrilk'e  ; 
se,  Ml  not 
aiif]  yet  are 
tioii  that  is 
or  a  picture 

ileteness  of 
hort  fiction 

tiiru  of  the 

lat  one  will 
werful  and 


'  receipt 


xy, 


iOSTON. 


TRAVELS   WITH    A    DONKEY    IN   THE   CEVENNES 

( I 'a pel 


Willi  a    l-'roiitispifcc    Illustration    by   Wai.ikr    Crank 
cover,  50  cents.)     lOnuj.     ;pi  00. 

Mr.  Stevenson's  jtiiirney  in  the  C'evetmes 
is  a  bright  .uid  anui>iiij;  book  for  -  ninier 
tcadmi;-  1  lie  author  set  out  ....iue,  on 
foot,  for  a  twelve  d.iys'  journey  over  the 
mountains,  with  a  donkey  to  carry  his  luj;- 


RaK'e.  lie  was  deplorably  ii;norant.  neither 
km  iw  inj;  how  to  pack  his  li  lad  nor  driv  e  his 
donkey;  and  iii^  early  experience  fotins  » 
rulicidoub  recoid  of  disaster.  —  i''<(»:7</^;/ir 
Journal. 


AN    INLAND  VOYAGE.     i6ino.     Si.oo. 


Unlike  Captain  Macgrei^or,  of  '"  Rob 
Roy"  fame,  Mr.  Sie\fnson  does  not  make 
canoeini;  itself  his  main  tiieme,  but  de- 
liglits  in  charming;  bits  r)f  description  tliat, 
in  their  c!i'-e  attention  to  pictnresiiue 
detail,  remind  one  of  tlie  work  of  a  skilled 
"^enre"  painter.  Nor  does  he  hesitate, 
from  time  to  time,  to  diverge  altoj^ether 
from  his  immediate  subject,  and  to  indulge 
in  a  strain   of  gently  hutnort)us   retieciion 

THE   SILVERADO   SQUATTERS.     With  a  Frontispiece 
by  Walii-.r  (rank,     lonio.     $1.00. 


that  furnishes  some  of  the  plcasantcst  pas» 
sages  of  the  book.  ...  In  a  modest  and 
(|uiet  wa\'.  .Mr.  Steven^on'N  book  is  one  ot 
the  very  best  of  the  year  for  summer  read 
itiK-  I  lie  Vdlume  has  a  \ery  neat  design 
for  tlie  cover,  with  a  lanciful  picture  of  tlie 
"Arethusa"  and  "  Ci^'irette,"  the  canoes 
of  the  author  and  his  companion.  —  Good 
/.  iterature. 


Mr.  Stevenson  is  an  invalid,  and  in 
search  of  health  he  went  to  Mount  .Saint 
Helena,  in  California,  and  high  up  in  its 
sides  took  posse:>sion  of  a  miner's  cabin 
fast  falling  to  ruin,  —  one  of  the  few  rem- 
nants of  the  abandoned  mining  village  of 
Silverado.  There,  with  his  wife  and  a 
single  '-ervant,  considerable  time  was  spent. 
The  interest  of  the  book   centred   in   the 


giaphic  style  and  keen  ol)servation  of  the 
author.  He  has  the  power  of  desciibing 
places  and  characters  with  ^llch  vividness 
that  you  seem  to  have  made  personal 
aci|uaiiitance  witli  both  .  .  .  Mr  .Steven- 
son's r.icv  narrative  brings  many  phases  o( 
lite  upon  the  western  coast  belnre  one  with 
striking  power  and  captivating  grace.  — 
yew   i'ork   li'orlii. 


TREASURE    ISLAND.      A  Siory  of   i'iratfs  and  the  Spanish 
Main.     With  28   Illustrations.      121U0.     (i'aprr  covers,  50    cents.) 
•5.     Cheaper  edition.     i6nio.     $1.00. 

details  the  stirring  adventures  (jf  an  Kng. 
lish  crew  in  their  >e.ircli  for  the  immense 
tre.isnre  secreted  by  a  pirate  cajitain,  and 
it  certainly  h.ts  not  a  dull  page  in  it  \'et 
the  author  has  contrived  to  keep  the  sym- 
l)atliy  on  the  sirie  of  virtue  and  honest v, 
and  throw  uiion  the  pirates  that  odium  and 
detC'^tation  which  their  nefarious  courses 
deserve:  and  the  Ix.ok  is  one  heartily  to 
be  commended  to  any  sturdy,  whr>les<)me 
lad  uIk)  is  fond  of  the  smell  of  the  brine 
.ind  the  tang  of  sailor  speech  in  his  read- 
ing. —  Host  OH  Courier. 


At  a  time  when  the  books  of  Mayne 
Reid,  r.allantyne,  and  Kingston  are  t  ikitig 
their  jilaces  011  the  shelves  to  uhich  well- 
thumbe<l  volumes  are  releg.ited,  it  will  be 
with  especial  delight  that  boy  readers  wel- 
come a  new  writer  in  the  literatnt-c  of  ad- 
venture In  "Treasure  '  ,l.ind,"  Robert 
l.ouis  Stevenson  tak^s  a  new  departure, 
and  writes  one  of  the  julliest,  most  lead- 
able,  wide-aw-ike  tales  of  sea  life  that  have 
set  t!ie  blofM  tingling  in  the  veins  of  the 
boys  of  at  least  the  present  generation.  It 
is  decidedly  of  the  exciting  order  of -tones, 
yet  not  of  the  unhealthily  sensation.il.     It 


PRINCE    OTTO.     A   Romance.      ir,mo.     .^i.oo. 


Whatever  Mr.  Stevenson  writes  is  sure 
to  be  interesting  and  even  absorbing  ;  and 
to  this  '•  I'rince  Otto"  is  no  excejition.  It 
is  a  graceful  and  unusual  romance,  full  of 
surprises,   full  of  that  individuality  which 


is  so  charming  in  every  page  this  authoi 
has  published,  and  so  uidiackneved  that 
(Uie  knows  not  what  to  expect  from  any 
<int  paragra|ih  to  the  next.  —  Boston 
Courier. 


■Sold  e7<eryxvhere.     Postpaid  h'  Publishers., 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND    COMPANY, 

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■  '■fvs'v.\K''''.'^^.-iMK^ilmmriwt.m:'^i9^^^fi^  -■>,'••''*' 


GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 


Mr.  *",ef)iKe  Mereditli  is  tlie  greatL-st  lui^li^Ii  novelist  living;;  lie  is  probalily  tlie 
HiiMtL'st  iinvoii>t  of  our  tiini;.  He  is  a  man  of  guniiis,  a  literary  artist,  and  a  truly  };rfat 
writer.  —  The  lieacnn. 

Since  tlie  (lavs  i>f  riiatkeray,  1  )ickeiis,  and  (iei>ri;e  Kliot  tlieri'  lias  net  ai)|)eare<l  in 
the  world  of  lMij;lisli  lictinn  so  coininandini;  a  tiLHic  as  the  aiiilior  of  this  volinne,  and 
all  lovers  of  j^ood  liter. uure  oiij;ht  to  make  his  aeciiiaintanci'.  —  Chimi^o  Journal. 

The  ()ki»i:ai.  oi-   Kiciiaru  Ficvkkkl.  V'hiokm, 

Evan   II  \kki\i;hin.  IJi..\i  (  iiami's  (.■,\i<Kiiu, 

IIaruv   ki(  iimmni).  KimiiA    li.i  mini;. 

Diana  ok  tmk  (Jko.ssways.  'I'lii:   Im.oisi, 

I'liK  SiiAviN(;  OF  SiiAtirATANO  Fakina.  Om    ci-  (Kk  Com )f krors. 

Sandra  lJi:i.LoNr.  'liii     i  r.\(.I(    Comiihans. 

The  above  volumes,  pnhlished  with  the  author's  saiuti'  :i,  iiKliidc  his  earliest 
and  best-known  books,  ami  arc  printed  as  i>riniiiall\  writlrii  without  iiiiitilatioii- 
Libraries  or  ))rivate  buyers  who  wish  to  obt.im  tlie  peilect.  imiforin  <-'iition  of 
Mr.  .Meredith's  early  works  at  a  remarkably  low  price  should  apjily  to  their  local 
bookseller  or  to  the  publishers  direct. 


SOME    PRESS    NOTICES. 

Mr.  Meredith's  novels  aiean  intellectnal  tonic.  'I'lux  uc  the  <;reat,  and  inderd  we 
inav  say,  they  are  the  onlv  novels  of  any  living  author  whiih  deserve  to  hi-  called  ;;reat. 
They  will  take  t'.e  same  lii,:;h  and  iierin.ment  rank  that  is  nssij;iK(!  to  the  novels  of 
(!eori;e  Kliot  '..d  (;eor^;e  Sand.  They  are  deeper  in  intelle'  1  power  than  J  )ickens, 
while   thev  have   less  of  his  dramaii/.iiions.     They  are  an  ciiial  mine,  and  will 

repay  careful  studv.  —  Hoston  I'mrclu-r. 

The  London  '*  Allien. euni "  says  of  "  Diana  ot"  the  Cross. >.,^-.  ':  "It  is  a  study  of 
cliar.icter,  and  it  is  also  a  study  of  emotion  ;  it  is  a  |)ictinc  of  fact  aiid  of  the  world,  and 
it  is  touched  with  '.;eneroiis  roin.ince:  it  is  rich  in  kindly  comedy,  and  it  ahoimds  in 
natural  passion;  it  sets  forth  a  seiectnin  of  many  lininan  elements,  and  it  is  joyful  and 
sorrowful,  wholesome  uith  l,»u.;liter,  .uid  fruillul  of  tear--  .is  lite  itself" 

Mr.  .Meredith's  novels  eerl.unly  have  the  (|ii.ilitiLs  which  we  marked  as  essential  to 
permanent  literature.  They  can  set  before  you  pictures  of  hap|iy  love,  or  of  voutli  and 
nature  that  can  never  be  liirv;otten ;  scenes  that  Hash  before  your  eyes  when  your 
tlioui;hts  are  elsewheie.  .  .  .  Whoever  reads  .Mr.  .Meredith  docs  luit  waste  his  time. 
He  is  in  j»ood  company,  anionj;  gentleuie.i  and  ladies;  above  all,  in  the  company  of  a 
genius.  —  Diily  Xrws. 

Cienius  of  a  truly  origin. il  and  spontaneous  kind  shines  in  every  one  of  these  books; 
of  f'aiK  y  there  is  only  too  much,  perhaps;  with  liealthy  beiuvolent  svmpatliy  they 
abound  ;  and  if  there  exists  anv  greater  master  of  his  native  tongue  than  Mr.  .Meredith, 
we  have  yet  to  hear  of  the  gentleman's  n.une.  -  -  .S7.  James  Cia.A'tte. 

It  was  not  until  i'^;  i,  when  he  had  re.uhed  the  age  ot  thirty-two,  that  he  I'roduced 
"  The  Ordeal  of  ivicii.ird  Feverel,"  his  first  mature  novel,  cli.irged  to  the  brim  with 
earnestness,  wit,  strength  of  conception.  Meredith's  stories  generally  end  happily;  but 
this  one  is  profoundly  tragic.  I  have  read  maiiv  of  his  diapters  without  being  moved, 
even  when  the  situation  in  itself  must  theoretirallv  be  acknowledged  an  atfecting  one. 
Iiut  it  seems  to  me  that  the  heart  which  is  not  tMuclird,  and  the  eves  that  do  not  become 
moist,  in  the  reailing  of  the  last  portions  of  '"  Rich.ird  Feverel,"  must  be  indurated  with 
a  gla/.e  of  indifference  which  is  not  to  be  envied. — G.  P.  LatiikoJ",  in  Atlantic 
Monthly. 

12  Volumes,   English  Edition,  uncut,  lamo      Price,  $1.50. 

12  VoUirnes,    English   Edition,  half  calf.     Extra,  $30  00  the  set. 

12  Volumes,   Popular  American  Edition,  i5mo,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY, 

Boston. 


■  •MI- HfiUS. 
II  III  A.\S. 

lii^  earliest 

iniitilation. 

11  e'iitidii  (if 

.0  tlicii  local 


n]  incleid  we 
(.rlecl  i;icat. 

lie  tlnvils  of 
laii  I  liikeiis, 
lie,  and  will 

s  a  study  of 

e  world,  and 

aljoiiiids  m 

is  joyfiij  and 

essential  to 
ii(  youth  and 

wlieti  your 
Ue  his  time. 
|)any  of  a 


oni 


hese  hooks : 
iipathv   thev 


Ml 


ith, 


le  produced 
;  hrirn   with 

ipily 


lUt 


-•inj;  moved, 
Ifeciint;  one. 


It  1 


)ecome 


luratcd  with 
ill  At/iiHtic 


1.00. 


NY, 

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